THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


H 


/ 


TALKS 
ABOUT  AUTHORS 


And  Their  Work 


BY 

ELLA     REEVE;     WARE 

AiatUor  of  Three  "Little  Lovers  of  Nature" 


'O  noble  work  of  toil  and  care, 
O  task  most  beautiful  and  tare, 
O  simple  but  most  arduous  plan- 
To  build  up  an  immortal  man." 


^ 


CHICAGO 
A.  FLANAGAN  PuBi^iSHER 


>  ^   >     A  •>      3 


i        i  i  i  i  i  i 


Copyright  1899, 

BY 

A.  Flanagan. 


,' » 1,1. 


I 


P/V 

51/ 


Introduction. 

These  sketches  of  well  knowu  authors  are  written 
in  simple  language  so  that  children  may  read  and  un- 
derstand them,  lyittle  folks  will  be  more  interested  in 
what  they  read  when  they  are  familiar  enough  with 
authors  to  make  them  seem  like  "real  folks." 

It  is  impossible  in  a  limited  space  to  give  complete 

information    concerning    the    lives  of   these  authors,  or 

the  motives   which  have  inspired   them    in    their  work, 

but  it  is  hoped    that    these    familiar   chats  may  give  a 

taste  for  further  reading  and  study. 

This   little   book   can   be  used   for  reading  lessons, 
ui 
2       as  the  foundation  for  "morning  talks"  or  for  language 

lessons.     When  used   as   language   lessons,  if  a   special 

lesson  should  be  given  on  the  birthday  of  each  author, 

it  would  help  to  impress  his  personality  on  the   minds 

of  the  pupils. 


448307 


THE  GARDEN  OF  LIFE. 

By  a.  E.  GUFFEY. 

'The  Garden  of  Life  —  it  beareth  well, 

It  will  repay  our  care; 
But  the  blossoms  must  always  and  ever  be 

Like  the  seed  we're  planting  there. 

For  beautiful  thoughts  make  beautiful  lives. 

And  every  word  and  deed 
Lies  in  the  thought  that  prompted  it, 

As  the  flower  lies  in  the  seed." 

—''Christian  at   Work:' 


"Think  truly,  and  thy  thoughts 
Shall  the  world's  famine  feed; 
Speak  truly,  and  each  word  of  thine 
Shall  be  a  faithful  seed; 
Live  truly,  and  thy  life  shall  be 
A  great  and  noble  creed." 

— Bonar. 


CONTENTS 


Agassiz,  Louis 62 

Alcott,  Louisa 163 

Andersen,  Hans  Christian . 41 

Bjornsen,   Bjornstjerne 159 

Burnett,  Frances  Hodgson 182 

Burns,  Robert 17 

Dickens,  Charles 126 

Eggleston,  Edward 132 

Field,  Eugene 199 

Grimm  Brothers 37 

Hale,  Everett  Edward 153 

^^^arris,  Joel  Chandler   190 

Howells,  WiUiam  Dean 141 

Hawthorne,   Nathaniel 52 

Irving,  Washington 26 

Kingsley,  Charles 126 

Kipling,  Rudyard 220 

Longfellow,  Henry  W 71 

Mendelssohn,  Felix 13 

Mozart,  Wolfgang 9 

Riley,  James  Whitcomb 211 

Stevenson,  Robert  Louis 203 

Stowe,  Harriet  Beecher 117 

Twain,  Mark 173 

Whittier,  John  G 87 

Willard,  Frances • .  147 


WOLFGANG  MOZART. 


TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS  AND  THEIR 

WORK. 

TWO  LITTLE  GERMAN  BOYS. 

WOLFGANG  MOZART. 

Born  January  27,  1756;  Died  1791  • 

Over  a  hundred  years  ago  a  sickly  little  boy, 
named  Wolfgang  Mozart,  lived  in  the  town  of 
Salzburg,  in  Germany.  His  father  was  a  musi- 
cian, and  felt  very  proud  when  he  discovered  that 
his  boy  had  a  wonderful  talent  for  music. 

When  he  was  only  four  years  old  he  began  to 
play  the  piano,  and  everyone  was  astonished  to 
hear  him  composing  the  music  as  he  played. 

He  was  a  merry,  active  little  fellow.  Music 
seemed  to  be  his  greatest  joy  in  life.  His  father 
gave  him  a  small  violin  when  he  was  very  young 
and  he  soon  mastered  it.  One  evening  there  was 
a  musical  party  at  his  father's  home  and  the 
players  wanted  to  make  up  a  violin  quartette. 
The  man  who  was  expected  to  play  the  second 
violin  was  absent,  and  little  Wolfgang  begged 

(V 


10  TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS. 

them  to  let  him  play  the  part,  but  his  father 
laughed  at  him  and  told  him  to  be  quiet.  The 
child  cried  so  hard  the  musicians  finally  told  him 
that  he  might  try  to  play  it  for  them.  Perched 
on  a  high  stool,  with  his  music  before  him,  he 
played  the  whole  part  through  without  a  mis- 
take. 

His  father  was  as  much  surprised  as  the  rest 
of  the  company. 

Mozart's  father  became  so  proud  of  his  son  he 
thought  all  the  great  princes  ought  to  hear  him, 
so  he  started  off  on  a  long  journey,  taking  the 
boy  to  kings'  palaces  and  to  the  homes  of  rich 
and  great  men. 

Of  course,  they  were  all  delighted  with  his 
wonderful  playing,  but,  instead  of  giving  the  boy 
and  his  father  money,  which  they  very  much 
needed,  they  gave  him  many  useless  presents — 
fine  gold  watches  that  would  not  go,  swords, 
snuff-boxes  and  all  sorts  of  jewelry.  As  it  was 
not  considered  right  to  sell  presents  given  by 
royal  persons,  little  Mozart  and  his  father  had 
to  go  hungry  many  times. 

After  traveling  all  over  Northern  Europe  and 
visiting  England,  they  returned  to  Salzburg  cov- 
ered with  glory,  but  with  very  little  money  in 
their  pockets. 


TALKS   ABOUT    AUTHORS.  11 

Mozart  was  then  about  twelve  years  old,  and 
in  one  year  at  home  he  composed  sonatas,  canta- 
tas, masses  and  many  other  pieces  of  music  so 
beautiful  and  good  that  they  are  still  enjoyed  by 
music-lovers  all  over  the  world. 

The  next  year  the  whole  family  set  out  on 
another  musical  journey. 

In  Vienna  the  boy  composed  a  German  opera, 
which  was  performed  at  the  house  of  a  friend. 

While  away  from  home  on  this  journey,  he 
nearly  lost  his  life  with  the  small-pox. 

When  they  returned  to  Salzburg,  he  was  made 
Concert  Master  by  the  Archbishop,  but  his  father 
could  not  settle  down  with  his  wonderful  boy, 
so  they  undertook  still  another  journey,  this 
time  going  to  Italy. 

This  was,  indeed,  a  holiday  trip.  The  boy's 
playing  was  so  admirable,  and  his  character  so 
sweet  and  gentle,  that  every  concert  was  a  tri- 
umph for  him. 

At  one  of  his  concerts  his  playing  showed 
such  marvelous  power  that  there  was  a  great  up- 
roar in  the  audience.  Some  one  cried  out  that  he 
ivore  a  magic  ring  and,  if  it  should  be  taken  off, 
he  could  not  play.  When  the  boy  heard  the 
cries  and  the  uproar,  he  at  once  took  off  his  ring 
and,  of  course,  played  as  well  as  before. 


12  TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

Mozart  had  many  trials,  especially  on  account 
of  his  poverty.  While  he  was  in  the  Archbishop's 
family  as  Keppel-Meister  he  was  compelled  to  eat 
with  the  kitchen  servants,  but  he  always  made  the 
best  of  everything,  and  those  servants  must  have 
had  a  happy  life  while  that  sunny-tempered 
genius  lived  with  them. 

The  music  of  Mozart  was  a  reflection  of  his 
nature.  The  sweet  strains  cheer  and  comfort 
many  souls.  His  life  was  a  short  one,  but  the 
sunshine  of  his  brave,  cheery  spirit  found  ex- 
pression in  his  music,  and  it  touches  the  hearts 
of  every  one. 

His  opera  of  Figaro  was  given  every  night 
during  one  whole  winter  in  Prague  and  became 
very  popular.  Babies  were  rocked  to  sleep  by 
the  cradle-songs,  the  hand-organs  ground  out  the 
airs  and  men  and  boys  on  the  streets  whistled 
the  melodies  from  this  beautiful  opera. 

Close  application  to  his  work  broke  down  his 
health,  and  when  he  was  only  thirty-five  years 
old,  he  died  while  composing  one  of  his  greatest 
works,  "  The  Requiem."  This  was  sung  at  his 
funeral  and  it  is  known  to-day  as  ''Mozart's 
Requiem."  It  breathes  the  last  thoughts  of 
Mozart,  his  sadness  over  his  broken  hopes,  and 
his  love  for  his  wife  and  his  music. 


FELIX  MENDELSSOHN. 

Boru  February  3,  IMi'';  Died  ls47. 

After  the  death  of  Mozart  another  boy  musician 
in  Germany  began  to  be  talked  about.  In  a  rich 
and  beautiful  home  in  Berlin,  quite  different  from 
the  poor,  plain  home  of  Mozart,  there  lived  a 
dark-haired  little  Jewish  boy  named  Felix  Men- 
delssohn. He  and  his  sister  Fanny  began  to  play 
the  piano  and  compose  music  just  as  Mozart  did. 
Felix  loved  his  sister  very  much  and  she  helped 
him  by  her  praise  of  his  compositions.  He  said 
that  she  knew  his  operas  by  heart  before  he 
wrote  out  a  note. 

Felix  was  taken  to  see  Goetlie,  the  great  Ger- 
man writer,  when  he  was  only  twelve  years  old. 
The  great  old  man  was  much  pleased  with  the 
boy  and  his  music  ;  he  tested  his  power  by  giving 
him  manuscript-music  composed  by  Beethoven 
and  Mozart,  to  play.  ^Mendelssohn  played  it  all 
easily  and  with  much  expression.  Goethe  never 
forgot  this  first  visit  of  the  musical  genius,  and 
as  long  as  he  lived  he  called  the  boy  his  friend. 

The  home  life  of  Mendelssohn  was  full  of  in- 
spiration to  him.    His  father  gave  many  musical 

(13) 


14  TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

parties,  which  brought  together  musicians  who 
were  accomplished  interpreters  of  the  music  of 
the  great  masters. 

The  boy  and  his  sister  Fanny  first  played  his 
beautiful  Overture  called  "A  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream,"  as  a  piano  duet.  It  was  meant  to  repre- 
sent Shakespere's  "Fairy  Play"  in  music;  if  you 
listen  when  you  hear  it  played  at  a  concert,  I 
think  you  will  be  sure  to  hear  the  merry  songs 
of  Pease  Blossom,  Mustard  Seed  and  all  the 
other  fairies,  and  the  hum  of  the  insects,  and  you 
can  almost  see  all  the  queer  little  people  who  live 
in  the  woods,  in  their  merry  dances. 

Whenever  Mendelssohn  desired  to  describe  to 
his  sister  anything  that  he  had  seen  in  his  trav- 
els, he  would  sit  down  to  the  piano  and  play  to 
her  instead  of  talking.  If  it  was  a  sea  voyage, 
she  could  almost  hear  the  roll  of  the  billows,  the 
flapping  of  the  sails,  and  feel  the  brisk  salt  air  of 
the  ocean.  After  his  visit  to  Scotland  he  de- 
scribed  Fingal's  Cave  and  the  rocky  Hebrides  by 
composing  a  grand  symphony  called  ''  The 
Hebrides." 

His  "  Songs  Without  Words  "  are  really  like 
words,  for  in  their  sweet  tones  we  can  easily 
catch  their  true  meaning.  "  Consolation,"  one 
of  these  "  songs,"   has    comforted    many   a   sad 


FELIX  MENDELSSOHN. 


16  TALKS    ABOUT    AUTHORS. 

soul,  and  in  "The  Spring  Song"  we  can  see  the 
first  flowers,  hear  the  bird's  note,  and  the  rustle 
of  the  leaves,  and  feel  the  stir  of  the  fresh,  new 
life  of  the  spring-time. 

Once,  when  speaking  of  her  brother's  success 
in  setting  to  music  verses  from  "  Walpurgis- 
Night  Dream,"  in  "  Faust,"  Fanny  proudly  said: 
"To  me  he  told  his  idea ;  one  feels  so  near  the 
world  of  spirits,  carried  away  in  the  air,  and  half 
inclined  to  snatch  up  a  broom-stick  and  follow 
the  aerial  procession.  At  the  end,  the  first  violin 
takes  a  flight  with  feather-like  lightness  and  all 
has  vanished." 

Fanny  and  Felix  both  had  happy  homes  after 
they  were  married.  Fanny's  husband  was  Wil- 
helm  Hensel,  a  noted  artist.  She  had  high 
hopes  for  the  future  in  the  success  of  her  husband 
and  brother,  but,  while  sitting  at  the  piano  one 
day,  practicing  with  her  little  choir  of  children, 
she  suddenly  died.  This  was  such  a  terrible 
grief  to  Felix  that  he,  too,  died  before  the  year 
was  over.  But  Felix  Mendelssohn,  the  little 
Jewish  boy  who  lived  his  short  life  so  long  ago 
in  German}'-,  will  always  be  remembered  through 
his  music,  and  he  is  still  considered  one  of  the 
great  musicians  of  the  world. 


ROBERT  BURNS, 
"THE  SCOTCH  I^ADDIE." 

Born  January  25,  1759,  Died  1796. 

Some  day  when  3''OU  are  reading  "The  Cotter's 
vSaturday  Night,"  or  some  other  poem  by  Robert 
Burns,  you  will  want  to  know  something  of  his 
life.  His  verses  are  full  of  pictures  of  his  life  in 
Scotland  and,  as  you  read  them,  you  can  almost 
see  "The  Banks  and  Braes  of  Bonnie  Doon." 
Robert  was  born  in  a  little  house  about  two  miles 
from  the  town  of  Ayr,  away  up  in  the  north  of 
Scotland.  His  father  was  a  kind  man,  and  his 
children  felt  very  sad  if  they  were  naughty 
enough  to  cause  him  to  speak  a  cross  word  to 
them.  Robert  said,  "If  he  had  to  give  us  a 
stripe  with  Taws,  a  leather  strap,  it  gave  us 
great  pain,  even  if  it  just  touched  the  skirt  of 
our  coat,"  and  they  wept  and  wailed  whenever 
such  a  thing  happened. 

Robert,  in  telling  the  story  of  his  boyhood, 
said:  "I  was  a  good  English  scholar  at  eleven 
3^ears  of  age,  but  it  cost  the  school-master  some 
thrashings." 

(17) 


18  TALKS   ABOUT    AUTHORS. 

When  Burns  was  about  fifteen  years  old  he 
had  to  work  on  his  father's  farm,  and  one  day  when 
he  was  in  the  harvest  field  the  inspiration  came 
to  him  to  write  his  first  poem.  There  was  a  las- 
sie, a  "bonnie  sweet  lassie,"  gleaning  in  the  field 
with  him,  and  he  made  some  verses  for  her  to 
sing,  as  she  had  a  very  sweet  voice.  Of  course 
all  the  other  boys  and  girls  thought  they  were 
fine,  and  the  lassie  sang  them  as  often  as  she  could 
get  them  to  listen. 

There  was  an  old  woman  living  in  the  Burns 
family  who  used  to  tell  the  children  most  won- 
derful stories  of  witches,  ghosts,  fairies,  brownies, 
spunkies,  and  kelpies.  The  Scotch  lads  and 
lasses  used  to  look  for  them  whenever  they 
played  in  the  fields  or  woods.  The  old  woman 
taught  them  that  fairies  and  brownies  lived 
in  the  woods,  that  witches  and  ghosts  made 
their  homes  in  grave-yards;  kelpies  were  fairies 
that  lived  near  water,  and  spunkies  were  little 
will-o'wisps  and  could  really  be  seen  flying  over 
marshes  flashing  oUt  like  sparks  of  fire.  She 
also  told  them  that  in  all  the  high  hills  there 
were  giants  and  dragons,  so  wherever  the  children 
went,  they  were  sure  to  be  near  the  homes  of 
some  of  these  queer  folks. 

Of  course,  the  boy,  Robert,  imagined  many 


ROBERT   BURNS. 


20  TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

stories  about  them,  and  he  says  he  used  to  keep 
a  sharp  lookout  in  dark  places,  while  walking 
out  at  night,  for,  although  he  did  not  believe  in 
ghosts,  he  could  not  shake  off  the  memory  of  the 
old  woman's  tales. 

Burns  loved  company,  and  made  a  great  man}^ 
friends,  because  he  was  so  jolly,  and  could  make 
suck  fine  verses.  When  he  was  going  out  into  the 
world  to  try  his  fortune  he  wrote  a  poem  about 
it,  which,  he  says,  described  his  feelings  at  the 
time. 

"My  father  was  a  farmer, 

Upon  the  Carrick  border, 

And  cheerfully  he  bred  me 

In  decency  and  order. 

He  bade  me  act  a  manly  part. 

Though  I  had  ne'er  a  farthing, 

For  without  an  honest,  manly  heart. 

No  man  was  worth  regarding. 

Then  out  into  the  world, 
My  course  I  did  determine; 
Though  to  be  rich  was  not  my  wish, 
Yet  to  be  great  was  charming; 
My  talents  they  were  not  the  worst, 
Nor  yet  my  education, 
Resolv'd,  was  I,  at  least,  to  try. 
To  mend  my  situation." 


TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 


21 


Then  he  tells  of  his  misfortunes  which  hap- 
pened, as  he  saj^s,  by 

"Mischance,  mistake,  or  by  neglect, 
Or  my  good  natured  folly; 
But  come  what  will,  I've  sworn  it  still, 
I'll  ne'er  be  melancholy." 


BURNS'    BIRTHPLACE. 

At  this  time,  Burns  had  all  the  eagerness  of  a 
boy  for  travel  and  adventure,  although  he  had 
reached  manhood.  He  started  off  to  Edinburgh 
with  enough  poems  to  make  a  book.  The  bool<: 
was  published  in  Edinburgh  and  brought  him 


22  TALKS    ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

many  friends,  and  from  its  sale  he  received  quite 
a  large  sum  of  money.  His  family  felt  proud 
of  him  when  he  returned  home  and  told  them 
of  his  fine  reception  in  the  great  city,  but  he 
was  ready  to  share  all  his  money  with  the  folks 
at  home.  He  finally  settled  down  on  a  farm,  at 
Ellisland,  with  wife  and  children,  and  was  made 
excise  man  of  the  district.  His  duties  were  to 
collect  the  revenue  taxes,  and  as  he  rode  on  horse- 
back among  the  hills  and  vales,  his  mind  was 
more  often  on  poetry  and  the  beauty  of  nature, 
than  on  the  taxes. 

But  with  all  his  rich  genius  and  good  pros- 
pects for  a  happy  life  there  were  many  in  those 
days  who  called  him  "Poor  Bobby  Burns,"  and 
many  do  it  yet.  Yes,  with  all  his  wealth  of  mind, 
he  was  poor  in  will-power.  He  v.as  not  strong 
enough  to  keep  from  drinking' too  much,  and  it 
was  this  weakness  that  ruined  his  life,  and  left 
his  wife  and  children  poor.  It  is  hard  for  us  to 
think  of  the  sad  times  of  his  life  when  we  see  his 
picture  with  the  beautiful  dark  eyes,  the  high 
forehead,  shaded  with  black,  curly  hair,  and  look 
into  the  pleasant  face,  and  we  turn  to  his  poems, 
glad  that  part  of  his  life,  at  least,  was  rich  with 
love  and  beauty. 


TALKS  ABOUT   AUTHORS.  23 


SCRAPS  FROM    BURNS'  POEMS. 

"Then  gently  scan  your  brother  man, 

Still  gentler  sister  woman; 
Though  they  may  gang  a  kennin'  wrong, 

To  step  aside  is  human." 

"Oh,  wad  some  power  the  giftie  gie  us 
To  see  oursels  as  others  see  us! 
It  wad  frae  mony  a  blunder  free  us 
And  foolish  notion!" 

"Then,  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may, 

As  come  it  will  for  a'  that. 
That  sense  and  worth  o'er  a'  the  earth 

May  bear  the  gree,  and  a'  that; 
For  a'  that  and  a'  that, 

It's  coming  yet  for  a'  that; 
That  man  to  man  the  world  o'er 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that." 


Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 
And  never  brought  to  min'? 
Should  auld  accquaintance  be  forgot. 
And  days  o'  auld  lang  syne?" 

"For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear. 

For  auld  lang  syne, 
We'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 

For  auld' lang  syne!" 


24  TALKS   ABOUT  AUTHORS. 

"We  twa  hae  run  about  the  braes, 

And  pu'd  the  gowans  fine; 
But  we've  wandered  mony  a  weary  foot 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne!" 

"Here's  freedom  to  him  that  wad  read, 

Here's  freedom  to  him  that  wad  write; 
There's  nane  ever  feared  that  the   truth  should  be  heard 

But  they  whom  the  truth  wad  indite." 

The  following  verses  by  Lowell  will  be  appre- 
ciated by  those  who  love  this  poet: 

He  spoke  of  Burns;  men  rude  and  rough 
Pressed  round  to  hear  the  praise  of  one 
Whose  breast  was  made  of  manly,  simple  stuff 
As  homespun  as  their  own. 

And  when  he  read  they  forward  leaned 
And  heard  v/ith  eager  hearts  and  ears 

His  bird-like  songs,  whom  glory  never  weaned 
From  humble  smiles  and  tears. 

Slowly  there  grew  a  tender  awe 

Sunlike  o'er  faces  brown  and  hard 
As  if  in  him  who  read  they  felt  and  saw 

Some  presence  of  the  bard. 

v^  itl^  t.lf  %^  kX*  s^ 

^JH  ^JH  *^  ^^  ^%  *f* 

I  thought  these  men  will  carry  hence 

Promptings  their  former  life  above, 
And  something  of  a  finer  reverence 

For  beauty,  truth  and  love. 


TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS.  25 

God  scatters  love  on  every  side 

Freely  among  his  children  all, 
And  always  hearts  are  lying  open  wide 

Wherein  some  grains  may  fall. 

There  is  no  wind  but  blows  some  seeds 

Of  a  more  true  and  open  life 
Which  burst  unlocked  for  into  high-souled  deeds 

With  wayside  beauty  rife. 

Within  the  hearts  of  all  men  lie 

These  promises  of  wider  bliss 
Which  blossom  into  hopes  that  cannot  die 

In  sunny  hours  like  this. 

****** 

It  may  be  glorious  to  write 

Thoughts  that  shall  glad  the  two  or  ihrce 
High  souls  like  those  far  stars  that  come  in  sight 

Once  in  a  century. 

But  better  far  it  is  to  speak 

One  simple  word  which,  now  and  then, 
Shall  waken  their  free  nature  in  the  weak 

And  friendless  sons  of  men. 


WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

Born  April  3,  ITS');  Died  1S50. 

This  great  American  author  wrote  at  times 
under  other  names.  The  "Sketch  Book"  was 
signed  "Geoffrey  Crayon,"  and  his  "History  of 
New  York"  was  supposed  to  have  been  written  by 
an  old  man  named  "  Diedrich  Knickerbocker." 
Irving's  style  was  so  beautiful,  his  descriptions 
so  well  written  and  his  humor  and  pathos  so  fine 
that  his  books  soon  became  known  as  his  own 
work,  whatever  name  was  signed  to  them. 

It  is  supposed  that  he  inherited  his  love  of 
the  beautiful  in  nature  and  art  from  his  mother, 
who  was  a  beautiful  girl,  grand-daughter  of  an 
English  curate.  She  was  impulsive  and  ten- 
der-hearted, and  had  a  fine  mind,  and  Irving 
and  his  brothers  and  sisters  were  much  influ- 
enced by  her.  His  father  was  a  Scotch  Pres- 
byterian and  his  stern  idea  about  religion  es- 
specially  repelled  the  boy  Washington,  and  he 
was  confirmed  at  an  early  age  in  the  Episcopalian 
church,  to  which  his  mother  belonged,  to  escape 
any  possibility  of  being  compelled  to  conform  to 
the  rigid  views  of  his  father.     His  father  was  a 

(26) 


WASHINGTON   IRVING. 


28  TALKS    ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

man  of  noble  character,  and,  no  doubt,  bad 
tenderness  in  his  nature,  but  he  thought  it  his 
duty  to  repress  it. 

Irving's  father  and  mother,  after  they  had  been 
married  two  years,  left  Scotland  and  landed  in 
New  York  in  1763.  Here  they  were  quite  happy 
and  successful  until  the  Revolutionary  War  broke 
up  the  father's  business,  and  they  both  were 
made  to  suffer  for  their  opinions  by  the  British 
who  occupied  New  York.  Mrs.  Irving  would 
often  feed  American  prisoners  from  her  own 
table,  visit  those  who  were  sick,  and  find  cloth- 
ing and  other  necessaries  for  them. 

When  little  Washington  was  born  in  1783,  in 
an  old  house  on  William  street,  between  Fulton 
and  John  streets,  the  American  army  occupied 
the  city,  and  his  mother  said:  "Washington's 
work  is  ended,  the  child  shall  be  named  after 
him." 

New  York  was  the  first  seat  of  the  govern- 
ment, so  Washington  was  there  later  as  the 
President.  A  Scotch  girl  living  in  the  Irving 
family  followed  the  hero  into  a  store  one  day, 
dragging  the  little  boy  after  her;  "  Please,  your 
honor,"  she  cried,  "here's  a  bairn  was  named 
after  you."  The  great  man  put  his  hand  on  the 
little  boy's  head  and  blessed  him,  never  dreaming 


TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS.  29 

that  in  the  years  to  come  this  boy  would  write 
the  "Life  of  Washington,"  which  is  to-day  con- 
sidered one  of  the  best  histories  of  his  life  and 
times  that  has  ever  been  written. 

When  Washington  Irving  was  a  little  boy  he 
was  living  in  the  city,  and  he  used  to  wander 
around  the  wharves  to  watch  the  vessels  sailing 
away  and  wishing  that  he  could  "sail  to  the  ends 
of  the  earth."  New  York  was  very  different 
in  those  old  days  from  the  great  rushing  city  it 
is  to-day — it  had  but  twenty-three  thousand  in- 
habitants, all  living  around  the  Battery.  Beyond 
the  city  hall  park  there  were  only  country 
houses,  orchards  and  corn-fields.  The  Dutch  and 
English  residents  did  not  mingle  very  freely,  but 
Irving  seems  to  have  been  on  good  terms  with 
both.  They  had  but  one  or  two  newspapers,  one 
theatre,  and  the  old  water-pumps  still  stood  in 
the  middle  of  the  streets.  But  there  was  even  at 
this  early  day  a  stir  and  bustle  that  promised 
greater  things  for  the  future,  and  the  boy  seemed 
to  have  caught  the  restless  spirit. 

His  mother  would  look  at  the  handsome  boy 
half  mournfully  and  say,  "O  Washington,  if  you 
were  only  good."  He  had  a  great  love  of  music, 
and  soon  tasted  the  stolen  delight  of  the  theatre. 
Whenever  he  could  save  a  little  money  he  would 


30  TALKS    ABOUT    AUTHORS. 

steal  away  from  home  early  in  the  evening  to 
the  old  theatre  in  John  Street.  He  would  go 
home  in  time  for  family  prayers  at  nine  o'clock, 
then  go  to  his  room,  climb  out  of  the  win- 
dow, slide  down  the  roof  to  a  back  alley,  and 
go  back  to  the  theatre  to  see  the  end  of  the  play. 
It  was  hard  to  get  good  teachers  for  the  boy  and 
he  did  not  study  very  faithfully,  but  his  love  of 
reading,  especially  of  books  of  travel,  his  love  of 
nature  and  his  quick,  bright  powers  of  observa- 
tion, were  an  unconscious  education  fitting  him 
for  his  life-work,  as  no  course  of  Greek  or  Latin 
study  could  have  done.  He  used  to  pass  the 
summer  holidays  in  Westchester  County  explor- 
ing the  "Sleepy  Hollow"  country,  which  he  has 
made  familiar  to  all  the  world  by  his  stories. 
"The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow,"  has  drawn  many 
a  pilgrim  to  this  region  to  see  the  enchanted  val- 
ley. Irving's  description  of  it  makes  the  reader 
feel  the  quiet  and  the  peacefulness  of  the  real 
Sleepy  Hollow.  "The  Headless  Horseman"  and 
poor  "Ichabod  Crane,"  the  school  master  who 
"tarried"  in  the  valley  to  teach  the  children,  are 
as  familiar  to  him  as  to  the  author. 

The  valley  is  near  the  village  of  Tarrytown, 
which  name  Irving  says  was  given  it  by  the 
country  wives,  because  their  husbands  tarried  so 


TALKS  ABOUT   AUTHORS.  31 

long  about  the  village  tavern  on  market  days. 
He  says — "Not  far  from  this  village,  perhaps 
about  two  miles,  there  is  a  little  valley,  or  rather 
lap  of  land  among  high  hills,  which  is  one  of  the 
quietest  places  in  the  whole  world.  A  small 
brook  glides  through  it  with  just  murmur  enough 
to  lull  one  to  repose;  and  the  occasional  whistle 
of  a  quail,  or  tapping  of  a  wood-pecker,  is  almost 
the  only  sound  that  ever  breaks  in  upon  the 
uniform  tranquility.  *  *  *  * 

I  recollect  that  when  a  stripling,  my  first  ex- 
ploit in  squirrel-shooting  was  in  a  grove  of  tall 
walnut-trees  that  shades  one  side  of  the  valley. 
I  had  wandered  into  it  at  noon-time  when  all 
nature  is  peculiarly  quiet  and  was  startled  by 
the  roar  of  my  own  gun  as  it  broke  the  sabbath 
stillness  around,  and  was  prolonged  and  rever- 
berated by  the  angry  echoes."  The  boy  who  used 
to  pass  so  many  summer  days  in  this  valley  of 
Sleepy  Hollow  with  his  gun,  grewup  without  any 
business.  He  commenced  to  study  in  a  lawyer's 
office  but  he  read  more  books  of  travel  than  of  law. 
Later  his  health  failing,  he  decided  to  go  across  the 
ocean.  While  traveling  in  England  the  news 
came  to  him  that  his  fortune  was  gone.  Although 
this  seemed  a  trial  and  misfortune  at  the  time,  it 
proved  to  be  a  blessing  in  the  end,  for  it  decided 


32  TALKS    ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

him  as  to  his  life-work.  He  knew  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  the  great  story-writer  of  England,  and  was 
introduced  by  him  to  the  publisher  Murray,  who 
was  persuaded,  much  against  his  will,  to  publish 
a  book  for  Irving  called  "The  Sketch  Book,"  a 
collection  of  stories  containing  "The  Legend  of 
Sleepy  Hollow,"  The  Pride  of  the  Village,"  "Rip 
Van  Winkle,"  and  other  stories,  beside  descrip- 
tions of  English  life  as  he  had  observed  it  in  his 
travels,  especially  of  the  Christmas  customs  and 
merry-making.  Murray  gave  him  a  thousand 
dollars,  which  helped  him  to  make  a  new  begin- 
ning in  life,  and  so  successful  was  the  book  that 
he  afterward  gave  him  more  money  for  it  and 
paid  him  seventy-five  hundred  dollars  for  his 
"Tales  of  a  Traveller"  before  he  had  read  the 
manuscript. 

He  traveled  much  in  Spain,  living  there  at  one 
time — while  writing  "The  Alhambra"  and  "The 
Spanish  Papers."  It  is  said  that  he  wrote  his 
story  of  the  Alhambra  inside  the  walls  of  the 
beautiful  palace,  spending  whole  days  there.  He 
received  political  honors  during  his  life,  being  at 
one  time  minister  to  Spain,  at  another  time  sec- 
retary of  the  American  Legation  in  England. 
The  last  years  of  his  life  were  spent  near  the 
enchanted  region  of  his  fancy. 


TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 


33 


His  home,  called  "Sunnyside,"  was  built  near 
Tarrytown.  Here  he  lived  with  his  nieces,  for 
he  never  married.  He  was  remarkably  strong, 
and  was  busy  with  his  mental  work  to  the  end 


IRVING'S    home — SUNNYSIDE. 

of  his  life,  writing  his  wonderful  "Life  of  Wash- 
ington," when  he  was  in  his  eightieth  year. 
His  books  were  read  by  many  people,  all  over  the 
world.  One  edition  of  fifteen  volumes  reached 
a  sale  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand.     One 


34  TALKS   ABOUT  AUTHORS. 

story  ill  the  "Sketch  Book"  will  be  remembered 
and  loved  more  than  any  of  the  others.  It  is 
that  of  "Rip  Van  Winkle."  No  one  can  ever 
forget  the  little  men  who  lived  in  the  Kaatskill 
mountains,  and  the  story  of  the  young  man  who 
wandered  off  one  day  with  his  dog  and  his  gun 
for  a  rest  from  the  sharp  tongue  of  his  wife, 
Gretchen,  and  Ij^ing  down  on  the  mountain  to 
sleep,  somehow  fell  under  the  bewitching  in- 
fluence of  the  little  men  of  the  mountain,  and 
slept  for  twenty  years;  his  amazement  on  waking 
to  find  an  old  rust}^  fire-lock  by  his  side  instead 
of  his  own  well-oiled  gun,  his  dog,  Wolf,  gone, 
and  a  flowing  white  beard  on  his  face;  his  exper- 
iences on  going  back  to  the  village  and  finding 
everything  changed,  his  own  littie  ones  grown 
up,  with  children  of  their  own.  All  this  won- 
derful story  seems  really  a  true  one  when  reading 
Irving's  wonderful  description.  It  is  hard  to  be- 
lieve that  Rip  Van  Winkle  did  not  really  live  in 
the  little  village,  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson 
river,  or  sleep  for  twenty  years  in  the  Kaatskill 
mountains,  if  one  is  so  fortunate  as  to  see  it  acted 
by  the  famous  Joseph  Jefferson.  That  there  was 
an  old  man  who  used  to  tell  this  story  of  him- 
self in  Irving's  time,  must  be  supposed,  for  the 
author  says,  in  his  funny  way,  at  the  close  of  the 


TALKS   ABOUT  AUTHORS.  35 

story,  "He  used  to  tell  his  story  to  every  stranger 
that  arrived  at  Mr.  Doolittle's  hotel.  He  was 
observed,  at  first,  to  var}'-  on  some  points  every 
time  he  told  it,  which  was  doubtless  owing  to 
his  having  so  recently  awaked.  It  at  last  settled 
down  precisely  to  the  tale  I  have  related,  and  not 
a  man,  woman  or  child  in  the  neighborhood  but 
■  what  knew  it  by  heart.  Some  always  pretended 
to  doubt  the  reality  of  it,  and  insisted  that  Rip 
had  been  out  of  his  head  and  that  was  one  point 
on  which  he  always  remained  flighty.  The  old 
Dutch  inhabitants,  however,  almost  universally 
gave  it  full  credit.  Even  to  this  day,  they  never 
hear  a  thunder-storm,  of  a  summer  afternoon 
about  the  Kaatskill,  but  what  they  say,  Hen- 
drick  Hudson  and  his  crew  are  at  their  game  of 
nine-pins;  and  it  is  a  common  wish  of  all  hen- 
pecked husbands  in  the  neighborhood  when  life 
hangs  heavy  on  their  hands  that  they  might  have 
a  quieting  draught  out  of  Rip  Van  Winkle's 
flagon." 

This  story  gives  a  good  example  of  Irving's 
humor,  which  often  appears  in  his  stories.  Per- 
haps this  humor,  combined  with  sentiment  and 
pathos,  was  his  greatest  gift.  Critics  have  said 
that  his  work  lacked  imagination,  but,  if  this  is 
true,  it  still  has  an  enduring  charm  that  pleases 


36  TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

and  interests  the  reader  as  much  to-day  as  when 
the  words  were  written  nearly  a  hundred  years 
ago, and  his  pen  has  madean  enchanted  country 
of  the  Sleepy  Hollow  valley,  and  almost  sacred 
ground  of  the  hill  overlooking  the  valley  and 
the  shining  river  Hudson. 


THE  GRIMM  BROTHERS. 
JAKOB  LUDWIG  GRIMM. 

Born  January  4,  17y5;  Died  1863. 

WILHELM  KARL  GRIMM. 

Born  February  24,  1786;  Died  1859. 

Next  to  Andersen's  Fairy  Tales,  The  Stories 
of  Wilhelm  and  Jakob  Grimm  are  loved  in  all 
households.  Grimm's  Tales  are  told  in  a  plain, 
simple  way,  and  yet  they  are  full  of  interest. 

"The  Town  Musicians,"  "Hans  and  Gretel" 
and  many  others  will  always  be  dear  to  the  chil- 
dren of  every  country. 

The  most  beautiful  thing  about  the  lives  and 
work  of  the  Grimm  brothers  was  their  love  for 
each  other. 

Just  one  year's  difference  in  their  ages,  they  kept 
together  in  their  classes  at  school,  and  when 
their  father  died,  while  they  were  still  small 
boys,  through  the  kindness  of  an  aunt  they  were 
prepared  for  the  University.  At  the  University 
of  Marbourg  they  came  under  the  influence  of  a 
learned  man  named  Savigny.  He  stimulated 
their  love  for  learning  and  of  books. 

(,?7) 


443307 


38  TALKS  ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

.  One  winter,  when  he  was  doing  some  special 
work  in  Paris,  he  sent  for  Jakob  Grimm  to  help 
him. 

This  was  the  first  separation  of  the  brothers, 
and  almost  the  only  one  of  their  whole  lives. 
The  mother  was  pleased  at  the  honor  given  her 
boy,  but  was  very  anxious  over  the  journey. 

All  the  time  he  was  on  the  road  she  could  not 
sleep,  but  would  get  up  from  bed  to  notice  the 
weather,  fearing  that  he  might  freeze  to  death  or 
meet  with  some  accident. 

She  did  not  live  to  enjoy  the  fame  of  her  sons, 
but  died  while  they  were  still  struggling  to  make 
a  living.  Soon  after  her  death  Jakob  was  ap- 
pointed Librarian  of  the  King  of  Westphalia. 
This  gave  him  a  fine  salary  and  plenty  of  time 
to  study,  no  one  but  the  King  being  allowed 
the  use  of  the  library.  He  studied  here  for  five 
years,  much  of  the  time  having  his  brother  Wil- 
helm  with  him. 

Later,  the  brothers  both  secured  positions  in 
the  Electoral  Library  at  Cassel.  While  they 
worked  together  in  this  library  for  over  thirteen 
years  they  published  a  number  of  books,  among 
others,  those  so  dear  to  children,  "The  Kinder- 
und  Haus-marchen,"  Children's  Tales  and 
Household  Tales. 


TALKS   ABOUT  AUTHORS.  39 

They  gathered  the  stories  from  the  peasants 
of  Hesse  and  Hanan,  many  of  them  being  told 
to  them  by  the  wife  of  a  cow-herd  near  Cassel. 
She  had  a  remarkable  memory  for  old  folk-lore 
stories  and  she  told  them  so  thoughtfully  and 
with  so  much  expression  the  brothers  could  al- 
most write  the  stories  direct  from  her  dictation. 

For  years  these  brothers  continued  to  write 
together,  for  a  long  time  occupying  the  same 
study,  and  after  that,  having  adjoining  rooms. 
Besides  their  Household  Stories  they  wrote  great 
works  on  History  and  a  large  German  Grammar 
in  four  volumes — works  on  German  Mythology, 
Stories  called  "Old  German  Forests,"  extracts 
from  the  Elder  Edda,  a  collection  of  German 
Legends  and  a  volume  of  Irish  Fairy  Stories. 

The  brothers  received  appointments  as  pro- 
fessor and  librarian  at  the  University  of  Gottin- 
gen,  and  later  as  members  of  the  Academy  by 
the  King  of  Prussia.  This  called  them  to  Berlin 
and  here  they  spent  the  last  years  of  their  life, 
always  working  together,  dressing  alike,  eating 
at  the  same  table  and  together  owning  a  fine 
library.  Jakob  was  custodian  of  the  books  they 
both  loved  so  well,  and  he  could  put  his  hand 
on  any  one  of  them  in  the  dark,  so  familiar  was 
he    with    them    all.     Besides    their   passion   for 


40  TAI.KS  ABOUT  AUTHORS. 

books,  they  both  loved  flowers.  Wilheiji's 
windows  were  always  full  of  primroses  in  full 
bloom,  and  Jakob's  of  heliotrope  and  gilliflower. 
Wilhelm  married,  but  this  did  not  disturb  the 
peaceful  union  of  the  brothers.  His  wife  took 
faithful  care  of  Jakob,  too,  and  not  until  death 
came  to  Wilhelm  was  this  beautiful  friendship 
broken. 

When  we  read  Grimm's  Fairy  Tales  after 
this,  let  us  think  of  the  love  of  these  two  brothers 
for  each  other,  of  their  long  years  of  faithful  work 
together,  which  has  left  the  world  richer  on 
account  of  their  loving  comradeship — 

"A  lowly  roof  may  give  us  proof 

That  lowly  flowers  are  often  fairest; 
And  trees  whose  bark  is  hard  and  dark 
May  yield  us  fruit  and  bloom  the  rarest." 


HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN, 
"THE  DANISH  BOY." 

Born,  April  2,  1805;  Died  1875. 

All  children  who  love  to  read  fair}^  stories, 
know,  as  old  friends,  the  many  "Wonder  Stories" 
of  Hans  Andersen.  The}-  love  the  story  of 
"The  Ugly  Duckling,"  "The  Snow  Queen"  "The 
Constant  Tin  Soldier"  and  others  just  as  beauti- 
ful. 

There  is  a  book  written  b}^  him  that  some  of 
the  children  have  not  heard  of,  that  is  perhaps,  the 
most  interesting  of  all.  He  says  of  it,  "It  is  my 
'Wonder  Story.'  "  It  is  called  "The  Story  of  My 
Own  Life." 

It  is  as  beautiful  and  strange  as  a  fairy  tale — 
the  story  of  this  poor  little  Danish  bo}',  who 
though  so  poor  and  obscure  found  his  way  by 
his  wonderful  stories  into  the  palaces  of  kings, 
and  into  the  homes  of  poets  and  writers  of  many 
lands. 

His  father  was  a  poor,  young  shoe-maker  in 
the  town  of  Odense  in  Denmark.  In  his  bo}^- 
hood  he  had  longed  to  go  to  school  and  had 
always  loved  books,  but  his  extreme  povert}^  had 
kept  him  tied  to  his  shoe-maker's  bench. 

(41) 


42  'TAI.ES   ABOUT  AUTHORS. 

He  had  made  nearly  all  the  furniture  in  his 
little  home,  and  Hans'  mother,  who  loved  the 
boy  and  his  father  very  much,  but  who  didn't 
care  for  books,  kept  the  place  very  clean  and 
attractive,  so  that  Hans  always  remembered  it  as 
a  pleasant  little  home.  The  walls  were  covered 
with  pictures  and  over  the  work-bench  was  a 
closet  filled  with  books  and  songs.  The  kitchen 
shone  with  metal  pans  and  bright  plates,  and 
by  climbing  on  a  ladder  he  could  get  on  the  roof, 
where  his  mother  had  a  vegetable  garden  planted 
in  a  great  chest  filled  with  soil.  In  the  story  of 
"The  Snow  Queen,"  the  garden  is  this  same 
roof-garden  of  his  mother's  In  two  other  stories 
he  has  drawn  some  events  in  his  mother's  life. 
She  had  been  a  poor  little  child  and  had  been 
sent  out  by  her  parents  to  beg.  She  told  little 
Hans  how  one  day  she  had  sat  and  cried  all  day 
under  a  bridge.  His  mother's  character  is 
brought  into  the  story  of  "Only  a  Fiddler"  and 
"The  Improvisatore." 

Hans'  father  loved  the  boy  with  his  whole 
heart.  He  invented  all  sorts  of  plays  for 
him,  making  theatres  and  changing  pictures  and 
reading  to  him  from  "Holberg's  Plays"  and 
"The  Arabian  Tales."  On  pleasant  Sundays 
he  took  him  for  whole  days  in  the  woods,  and 


HANS   CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN, 


44  TALKS    ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

there  is  no  doubt  tliat  the  boy's  imagination  and 
tender  love  of  nature  were  helped  in  their  growth 
by  his  loving  father. 

Hans'  grand-father  lived  in  the  neighborhood 
and  was  feeble-minded.  His  grand-mother  was 
a  fine  old  lady  who  had  belonged  to  a  very  good 
family  and  it  was  probably  her  early  teaching 
that  had  instilled  the  love  of  books  in  Hans' 
father.  She  loved  Hans  dearly  and  he  liked  to 
be  near  her,  but  he  was  afraid  of  his  poor  old 
grand-father.  When  he  saw  him  coming  down 
the  street  with  his  basket  of  carved,  wooden 
figures,  beasts  with  heads,  and  beasts  with  wings, 
he  would  run  and  hide,  for  he  was  ashamed  when 
the  boys  shouted  at  him.  But  the  old  man  was 
kind  and  good,  taking  his  basket  of  queer  toys 
out  into  the  country  and  giving  them  to  the 
peasant  women  and  children. 

Little  Hans  had  bright,  observing  eyes,  but  he 
used  to  walk  around  with  his  eyes  closed,  dream- 
ing out  his  stories  until  the  people  thought  his 
eyes  were  weak. 

An  old  woman  who  kept  an  A.  B.  C.  school 
taught  him  to  read  and  write.  She  used  to  whip 
the  other  children  with  a  great  rod,  but  Hans' 
mother  told  her  when  she  took  him  to  school 
that  she  would  not  have  him  touched  with  the 


TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS.  45 

rod.  But  one  day  the  old  woman  forgot  this 
order,  and  hit  him.  Hans  rose  from  his  seat  at 
once,  took  his  book,  and  went  home. 

He  then  went  to  a  school  for  boys,  where  there 
was  just  one  little  girl,  and  they  became  great 
friends,  and  he  told  her  wonderful  stories  of  the 
great  castle  he  expected  to  live  in  some  day,  when 
he  grew  to  be  a  nobleman,  and  he  said  she  might 
come  to  see  it.  She  would  listen,  and  say,  "But 
you  are  only  a  poor  boy."  One  day  he  told  her 
he  was  a  changed  child  of  high  birth,  and  that 
the  angels  of  God  came  down  and  spoke  to  him. 
She  looked  at  the  other  boys,  and  said,  "He  is  a 
fool,  just  like  his  grand-father."  This  made  poor 
Hans  shiver,  and  he  never  told  her  any  more  of 
his  fairy  tales,  and  wouldn't  have  her  for  a  play- 
mate. 

The  teacher,  Mr.  Carsten,  loved  him  very 
much  and  used  to  give  him  cakes  and  flowers. 

In  the  summer-time,  during  the  harvest,  his 
mother  took  him  into  the  fields  to  glean  the  grain 
that  fell  on  the  ground  after  the  reapers  had 
passed.  One  day  the  bailiff,  a  cross,  savage  man, 
chased  them  from  the  field  with  a  huge  whip  in 
his  hand.  His  mother  and  the  other  gleaners 
ran  very  fast,  but  poor  little  Hans  had  wooden 
shoes  on  his  feet  and  they  came  off  in  the  hurry, 


46  TAI.KS   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

SO  the  thorns  pricked  his  bare  feet,  and  he  had 
to  stop  running  and  face  the  angry  man  alone. 
He  had  his  whip  raised  to  strike  the  boy,  when 
he  looked  him  in  the  face,  and  said,  "How  dare 
you  strike  me,  when  God  is  looking."  The  man 
looked  at  him,  and  suddenly  became  mild,  pat- 
ting him  on  the  cheek,  asking  him  his  name  and 
giving  him  some  money.  When  he  showed  it 
to  his  mother,  she  said  to  the  others:  "He  is  a 
strange  child,  my  Hans  Christian,  everybody  is 
kind  to  him,  this  bad  fellow  even,  has  given  him 
money." 

He  must  have  been  a  funny  looking  boy  in 
those  days,  the  little  Hans.  He  says  in  his  story 
— "As  to  my  dress,  I  was  rather  spruce,  an  old 
woman  altered  my  father's  clothes  for  me,  my 
mother  would  fasten  three  or  four  large  pieces  of 
silk  on  my  breast,  and  that  had  to  do  for  vests,  a 
large  kerchief  was  tied  round  my  neck  in  a 
mighty  bow,  my  head  was  washed  with  soap  and 
my  hair  curled,  and  then  I  was  in  all  my  glory." 
Hans'  father  loved  to  read  plays,  and  when  they 
had  a  good  play-house,  or  theatre,  built  at  Odense, 
he  took  the  boy  to  see  some  German  plays  acted. 

This  was  a  precious  memory  to  Hans,  with 
his  lively  imagination.  He  soon  became  ac- 
quainted with  the  man  who  wrote  out  the  bills 


TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS.  47 

or  programs,  and  he  gave  the  boy  one  each  day. 
He  would  take  them  off  into  a  corner  by  himself 
and  imagine  whole  dramas  about  the  names  of 
the  characters  on  the  bill. 

And  so  his  peaceful,  happy  boyhood  passed 
away,  broken  by  the  rude  shock  of  his  dear 
father's  death.  After  that  he  was  left  entirely 
to  himself  while  his  mother  went  out  w^ashing. 
He  sat  alone  playing  with  his  dolls  and  the  the- 
atres his  father  had  made  him. 

In  the  neighborhood  there  lived  the  widow 
of  a  minister,  who  noticed  the  boy  with  the 
long  bright  hair,  and  often  invited  him  to  come 
in  to  see  her. 

She  read  poems  and  stories  to  him,  and  in  her 
house  he  first  heard  Shakespere's  Plays  read. 

From  this  time  he  became  ambitious  to  be  a 
poet  himself,  this  poor,  uneducated  boy. 

His  mother  decided  that  he  must  go  to  work 
in  a  factory.  This  was  a  great  trial  to  the  sensi- 
tive child. 

The  coarse  men  made  him  sing  for  them,  and 
his  beautiful  voice  was  often  heard  in  the  grim 
old  factory.  Some  of  the  rough  men  teased  him 
so  cruelly  he  w-as  obliged  to  leave  the  place. 

His  mother,  who  had  married  again,  then  de- 
termined that  he  should  learn  to  be  a  tailor.    Poor 


48  TALKS    ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

Hans  rebelled  at  this,  and  said  that,  now  that  he 
was  fourteen  years  old,  he  was  going  to  the  city 
of  Copenhagen  to  seek  his  fortune.  He  was 
so  determined  that  finally  his  mother  gave  her 
consent,  and,  taking  a  little  money  they  had 
scraped  together,  the  boy  started  off  with  high 
hopes. 

He  made  friends  by  his  fine  voice,  and  an 
Italian  music  teacher  gave  him  lessons  in  singing. 

But,  because  of  his  thin,  ragged  clothing  and 
not  having  enough  to  eat,  he  became  sick  and 
almost  lost  his  voice.  He  was  then  turned  out 
upon  the  world  again.  By  perseverance  he 
gained  the  friendship  of  good  men,  and  finally, 
after  all  of  them  had  agreed  that  he  could  never 
be  a  good  writer  or  good  actor  until  he  had  an 
education,  he  went  to  a  grammar  school,  his 
expenses  being  paid  by  a  Mr.  Collins,  a  friend 
who  was  always  very  good  to  him.  At  school 
he  had  a  hard  time,  for  he  had  to  begin  in  classes 
with  little  children. 

He  soon  worked  up,  however,  and  when  he 
graduated  began  to  write  his  stories.  First  he 
wrote  a  story  of  a  journey  he  made  on  foot,  then 
he  wrote  poems  and  plays,  but  it  was  as  a  writer 
for  children  he  became  more  widely  known. 
While  his  own  countrymen  sneered  at  his  work 


TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS.  49 

for  years  and  hurt  him  cruelly  by  unjust  criti- 
cism, in  every  other  country  his  name  became  a 
household  word.  He  traveled  to  Paris,  Italy  and 
England  after  leaving  school,  and  it  proved  the 
best  thing  for  him  to  get  away  from  the  narrow 
home  circles  and  find  those  who  understood  him. 
He  spent  many  happy  days  with  Thorwaldsen, 
the  great  sculptor,  one  of  his  countr^mien  who, 
like  himself,  had  been  a  poor  bo}^,  and  whose 
beautiful  work  was  not  appreciated  in  his  own 
land.  Andersen  wrote  several  of  his  tales  for 
children  while  sitting  with  Thorwaldsen — "Ole 
Luckoie"  and  others,  which  pleased  the  sculptor 
very  much. 

When  Andersen  visited  England,  Charles 
Dickens  took  him  to  his  home  and  with  him  he 
had  a  visit  that  he  remembered  with  joy  all  his 
life.  Dickens  loved  to  read  ''The  Tin  Soldier" 
and  many  other  stories  of  his,  and  the  six 
children  of  the  household  felt  that  this  Hans 
Andersen  belonged  to  them,  so  much  did  they 
love  his  Wonder  Stories.  Mendelssohn  in  Ger- 
many sought  him  for  a  friend,  and  musicians, 
writers  and  every  one  loved  this  man  from  Den- 
mark, whose  stories  charmed  them  by  their 
beauty  and  simplicity. 

Years    afterward   his    own    countrymen    gave 


50  TAI^KS   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

him  the  honor  they  had  held  back  so  long. 
Men  who  had  scorned  him,  tried  to  gain  his 
favor.  He  was  forgiving  and  gentle,  and  was 
more  pleased  with  the  festival  given  for  him  in 
his  old  home  town  of  Odense  than  with  all  the 
praise  of  kings  and  the  great  men  of  other 
countries. 

The  Ugly  Duckling  had  changed  into  the 
beautiful  swan,  and  the  same  folks  who  had 
tried  to  kill  the  duckling  by  their  cruel  tongues 
now  hurried  to  praise  the  beautiful  swan,  that 
had  come  to  the  home  nest,  at  last,  after  its  long, 
swift  flight  to  other  lands — 

"Like  the  swan  flying  back  to  the  place 
Where  the  nest  of  the  baby -bird  lay  ; 
And  its  fellows  had  little  of  grace 

For  the  poor  little  thing  dressed  in  gray. 

Where  it  dreamed  lying  hid  all  alone 
In  the  bushes  that  no  one  might  see, 

And  strange  among  birds  made  its  moan 
And  sighed  like  its  fellows  to  be. 

They  knew  not  its  lineage  nor  recked  they 
That  the  dreaming  had  truth  and  gave  might, 

And  soon  o'er  the  sky  'twould  be  winging  its  way 
In  the  luminous,  musical  swan  flight. 


TALKS   ABOUT  AUTHORS.  51 

That  wide  o'y  the  land  in  its  flight  it  should  go 
And  wider  by  far  should  fly  its  renown, 

Till  all  the  round  world  the  dear  name  should  know 
And  honor  come  back  to  the  old  native  town. 

That  deep  in  all  hearts  its  memory  should  chime 
In  the  great  and  the  small  holding  sway, 

Since  always  in  memory  it  kept  close  the  time 
When  it  too,  was  little  and  gray  " 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE, 

Born  July  4,  1S04;  Died  1864. 

CHldren,  as  well  as  grown  folks,  like  to  read 
books  that  are  written  in  simple,  direct  language, 
and  this  is  the  charm  of  Hawthorne's  story-books. 
The  old  Greek  stories  are  told  over  again  in 
plain,  short  English  words,  and  they  are  so  well 
told  that  they  seem  like  new  and  beautiful  fairy 
stories.  "The  Wonder  Book"  is  indeed  one  of 
the  best  fairy  books  ever  written  for  children. 
Hawthorne's  own  children  knew  nearly  every 
one  of  the  stories  by  heart  before  the  book  was 
printed,  and  one  of  them,  his  boy  Julian,  who  is 
now  a  man,  and  himself  a  writer,  says  that  they 
still  linger  in  his  memory.  The  writing  of  this 
book  gave  Hawthorne  great  enjoyment,  as  every 
page  of  it  is  bright  and  cheery,  while  some  of 
his  books  written  before  this  had  seemed  rather 
gloomy.  If  there  are  any  children  living  today 
who  have  not  yet  read  "The  Wonder  Book"  they 
have  a  rich  treasure  to  enjoy.  "The  Golden 
Touch ,^'  "The  Pomegranate  Seeds,"  "The  Pyg- 
mies" are  some  of  the  stories. 

(52) 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne. 


54  TALKS   ABOUT    AUTHORS. 

"Tanglewood  Tales"  is  another  collection  of 
his  Greek  fairy  tales,  full  of  sunshine,  and  like 
Kingsley's  "Greek  Heroes,"  the  legends  are  full 
of  beautiful  goddesses  and  brave,  daring  heroes. 
The  tales  give  us  glimpses  of  a  fairy-land  which 
was  very  real  to  the  old  Grecians.  Children  who 
love  Hawthorne's  "Tales  from  a  Grandfather's 
Chair"  will  be  interested  to  learn  that  at  one 
time  when  he  was  visiting  one  of  his  relatives  in 
the  "House  of  the  Seven  Gables,"  which  was  the 
name  of  one  of  his  books,  he  happened  to  say 
that  he  was  wondering  what  to  write  about  next. 
His  friend  pointed  to  an  old  arm-chair  that  had 
been  long  in  the  family,  and  said,  "Why  don't 
you  write  about  this  old  chair?  There  must  be 
many  stories  connected  with  it."  Hawthorne 
thought  this  a  good  idea  and  in  1841  published 
"The  Tales  from  a  Grandfather's  Chair." 

Hawthorne,  himself,  was  as  handsome  as  a 
Greek.  He  was  five  feet  ten  inches  in  height 
and  broad-shouldered.  In  the  letters  written 
about  him  to  his  son,  we  find  many  glowing 
descriptions  of  his  appearance.  It  is  told  of  him 
that  while  he  was  in  college  an  old  gypsy  woman 
met  him  suddenly  in  a  path  in  the  woods  and 
she  was  so  struck  by  his  noble  looks  ,she  cried 
out  "Are  you  a  man  or  an  angel?"     While  he 


TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS.  55 

was  in  London  he  was  often  compared  to  Robert 
Burns.  One  writer  says,  "His  limbs  were 
beautifully  formed  and  the  moulding  of  bis  neck 
and  throat  was  as  fine  as  anything  in  antique 
sculpture.  His  hair,  which  had  a  long  curving 
wave  in  it,  approached  blackness,  his  head  was 
large  and  grandly  developed,  his  complexion 
delicate  and  transparent,  rather  dark  than  light, 
with  a  ruddy  tinge  in  the  cheeks.  His  large  dark 
blue  eyes  were  brilliant  and  full  of  expression." 

Such  is  the  picture  we  have  of  Hawthorne, 
and  this  handsome  boy  used  to  walk  through 
the  streets  of  old  Salem  town  in  Massachusetts, 
dreaming  and  wondering  what  he  should  do  with 
his  life.  While  in  a  school  away  from  home  he 
wrote  to  his  mother  "I  have  not  yet  concluded 
what  profession  I  shall  have.  The  being  a  minis- 
ter is  perhaps  out  of  the  question,  I  should  not 
think  that  even  you  could  desire  me  to  choose 
so  dull  a  way  of  life. 

Oh,  no,  mother,  I  was  not  born  to  vegetate 
forever  in  one  place,  and  to  live  and  die  as  tran- 
quil as — a  puddle  of  water.  As  to  lawyers,  there 
are  so  many  of  them  already  that  one  half  of 
them  are  in  a  state  of  actual  starvation.  A 
physician,  then,  seems  to  be  'Hobson's  choice,' 
but  yet  I  should  not  like  to  live  by  the  diseases 


56 


TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 


and  infirmities  of  my  fellow  creatures — Oh  that 
I  was  rich  enough  to  live  without  a  profession! 
What  do  you  think  of  my  becoming  an  author 
and  relying  for  support  upon  my  pen?  How 
proud  you  would  feel  to  see  my  works   praised 


HAWTHORNK  S    HOME— OLD    MANSE. 

by  the  reviewers  as  equal  to  the  proudest  pro- 
ductions of  the  scribbling  sons  of  John  Bull." 
So  the  boy  had  visions  of  the  future,  feeling  the 
power  growing  within  him,  that  would  place  him 
in  the  line  of  great  authors,  great  for  all  time, 


TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS.  0( 

although  he  said  when  dreaming  of  authorship, 
"But  authors  are  always  poor  devils,  and  Satan 
may  take  them."  The  story  of  his  life  written 
by  his  son  Julian  shows  that  Hawthorne  had 
much  more  than  a  "poor  devil"  existence.  His 
life  in  Salem,  first  as  a  boy,  then  with  a  beautiful 
wife  and  children,  is  almost  ideal  in  its  peace 
and  happiness. 

Here  in  the  quiet  of  the  "Old  Manse"  he  wrote 
"The  Scarlet  Letter,"  "House  of  the  Seven 
Gables"  and  many  other  stories.  There  is  an 
old  house  on  Herbert  Street  in  Salem  where  he 
lived  when  a  boy,  with  his  grandmother,  and 
there  is  an  upper  room,  preserved  as  it  used  to 
be,  where  he  wrote  "Twice  Told  Tales."  He 
wrote  in  1840  of  this  room:  "Here  I  sit  in  my 
old  accustomed  chamber,  where  I  used  to  sit  in 
days  gone  by.  Here  I  have  written  many  tales, 
and  much  of  my  lonely  youth  was  wasted  here." 
He  lived  twice  in  this  house,  in  later  years,  and 
it  was,  more  than  any  other,  his  real  home.  It 
is  only  a  short  walk  from  this  house  to  the  cus- 
tom-house which  he  describes  so  well  in  "The 
Scarlet  Letter,"  and  where  his  ofiice  was,  when 
he  was  Surveyor  of  the  Port  of  Salem.  His  wife 
used  to  wish  for  more  time,  for  this  "Heaven- 
gifted  seer"  as  she  called  him,  while  he  worked 


58 


TALES   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 


in  the  custom-liouse,  more  time  for  him  to  write. 
The  day  on  which  he  was  discharged  on  account 
of  a  misunderstanding,  coming  home  earlier  than 
usual,  she  expressed  her  pleasure.  "But,"  he 
answered    "I    have   left  my   head  behind   me." 


The  old  Salem  Custom  House,  which  plays  so  large  a  part  in  "The  Scarlet 

lyetter,"  and  which  was  Nathaniel  Hawthorne's  Headquarters 

during  his  Term  of  Office  as  Surveyor  of  the  Port 

of  Salem,  1846  to  ls4y. 

"Oh  then,''  she  exclaimed  "You  can  write  your 
book."  This  was  a  comfort,  but  Hawthorne 
wondered  how  they  would  live  while  he  was 
writing  it.  His  wife  was  equal  to  the  emergency, 
however,  for  she  had  been  saving  from  his  salary 


TALKS    ABOUT   AUTHORS. 


59 


each  week,  and  had  quite  a  large  pile  of  gold  in 
her  desk.  She  showed  him  this  unexpected 
treasure,  and  was  delighted  at  his  surprise.  He 
began  at  once  to  write  "The  Scarlet  Letter." 
This  story  is  a  sad  one,  and  hardly  understood 


The  Desk  at  which  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  sat  as  Surveyor  of  the  Port 
of  Salem.    Now  preserved  at  the  Essex  Institute. 

by  very  young  people.  The  part  of  his  life 
spent  in  Italy  touched  his  sensitive  spirit  as  with 
fire,  and  inspired  by  the  beauty  of  Italian  life  and 
art  he  wrote  "The  Marble  Faun"  and  "The  Italian 
Note  Books,"  also  a  record  of  the  life  in  Italy. 


60 


TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 


He  was  restless  about  staying  in  one  place 
very  long,  and  his  son  says  that  when  he  was  in 
England  he  longed  for  Paris  and  Italy,  and  at 
home  in  America  he  longed  for  England. 

While  living  in  their  beautiful*  home  in  Con- 
cord, the  Wayside,  he  completed  the  "Tangle- 


HAWTHORNE'S   home — THE   WAYSIDE. 

wood  Tales''  and  wrote  ''The  Life  of  Pierce,"  his 
college  friend  who  became  President  of  the 
United  States.  Hawthorne's  wife,  in  writing  of 
one  of  their  walks  near  Walden  Pond  where 
Thoreau  had  his  little  hut,  says,  "All  that  ground 


TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 


61 


is  consecrated  to  me  by  unspeakable  happiness." 
We  went  up  the  bare  hill  opposite  the  Old  Manse 
and  I  descended  on  the  other  side  so  I  could  look 
up  the  avenue  and  see  our  first  home.  We 
returned  through  Sleepy  Hollow  and  walked 
along  a  stately  broad  path  which  we  used  to  say 
should  be  the  chariot-road  to  our  castle,  which 
we  would  build  on  the  hill  to  which  it  leads." 

Julian  Hawthorne,  in  writing  of  this  letter  of 
his  mother's,  says,  "The  hill  in  Sleepy  Hollow 
on  which  'our  castle'  was  to  stand  is  now  the 
site  of  Hawthorne's  grave;  and  the  'chariot-road' 
was  the  path  up  which  his  funeral  procession 
mounted."  He  died  suddenly  at  Plymouth, 
Mass.,  in  1864,  and  his  body  rests  in  the  quiet 
cemetery  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  in  Concord,  near  the 
shining  mountain  rock  which  marks  the  grave 
of  Emerson.  Visitors  to  Sleepy  Hollow  find 
many  other  great  names  on  the  simple  headstones 
marking  the  graves  of  Hawthorne's  friends, 
America's  great  poets,  preachers  and  writers. 

Julian  Hawthorne,  the  son  of  Nathaniel  Haw- 
thorne, is  one  of  the  well  known  writers  of  mod- 
ern romance,  and  of  the  better  style  of  newspaper 
articles.  His  daughters  also  inherited  his  bril- 
liant qualities  and  have  helped  to  make  the  world 
brighter  and  better. 


LOUIS  AGASSIZ. 

THE  SWISS  BOY. 

Born  May  2S,  1H07;  Died  1873. 

In  a  little  village  called  Motier,  among  the 
foothills  of  the  -g^^^"  Alps,  there  lived  a 
minister  named  Agassiz,  with  his  wife,  Rose, 
and  their  two  little  boys,  Louis  and  Auguste. 

Louis  and  his  brother  didn't  go  to  school  until 
they  were  quite  large  boys,  but  their  father  and 
mother  taught  them  many  things  at  home.  Louis 
learned  more  from  Mother  Nature  than  he  did 
from  his  books,  roaming  the  fields,  catching  in- 
sects, and  watching  all  kinds  of  animal  life. 

He  had  many  pets,  birds,  mice,  rabbits,  and 
every  kind  of  animal  he  could  catch,  but  his 
special  interest  seemed  to  be  in  fishes.  He 
watched  the  little  nooks  and  corners  where  the 
fishes  lived,  and  where  their  homes  were. 

In  the  yard  of  his  home  a  stone  basin  had 
been  built  to  hold  the  waters  of  a  spring.  The 
boy  kept  his  fishes  in  this  basin  and  watched 
their  doings  very  carefully,  until,  he  knew  the 
habits  of  each  fish.     He  soon  developed  the  won- 

(62) 


Louis  agassiz. 


64  TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

derful   powers  of  observation,   whicli  afterward 
helped  him  more  than  all  his  books  and  teachers. 

In  those  days  it  was  the  custom  in  Switzerland 
to  get  all  necessary  work  done  by  traveling  men, 
instead  of  depending  on  stores  and  shops.  Tailors 
would  go  from  house  to  house,  making  clothes;  car- 
penters, shoemakers,  and  other  mechanics  would 
go  around  the  country  in  the  same  way.  Many  of 
these  travelers  stopped  each  year  at  the  little 
house  where  the  Agassiz  family  lived,  and  the 
boy  watched  them  carefully  while  they  worked, 
and  he  often  astonished  the  family  by  making 
something  just  after  they  left.  In  this  way,  he 
made  a  pair  of  shoes  for  his  sister's  doll,  after  a 
visit  from  the  cobbler,  and  a  water-tight  barrel, 
after  watching  the  cooper  make  one  for  his 
father. 

All  his  playmates  seemed  to  know  that  this 
boy,  who  could  tell  them  so  much  about  insects, 
fishes  and  wild-flowers,  was  different  from  other 
boys,  and  he  was  always  glad  to  answer  their 
questions  and  show  them  his  pets. 

His  mother  was  a  noble  woman  and  influenced 
his  life  for  the  highest  good.  Two  of  her  little 
boys  had  died,  so  she  kept  Louis  and  his  brother 
very  near  her  until  they  were  ten  years  old. 
Their  father  saved  all  the  money  he  could  spare 


TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS.  65 

SO  that  the  boys  could  have  a  good  education,  and 
they  were  sent  to  the  college  at  Bienne  when 
they  were  still  only  boys  of  twelve  or  thirteen 
years.  The  college  was  twenty  miles  from  their 
home,  but  the  boys  thought  nothing  of  walking 
this  distance  when  the  folks  at  home  had  their 
grape-picking,  which  was  a  gay  festival  time  in 
the  Swiss  valleys.  The  other  holidays  also 
found  the  boj^s  at  home,  for  what  were  twenty 
miles  to  two  such  strong,  hearty  boys  as  Louis 
and  Auguste  Agassiz? 

Louis  kept  right  on  with  his  collection,  and 
added  many  curious  and  interesting  objects  to  it. 
During  his  school-days  he  and  his  brother  began 
to  get  a  library  together.  They  had  very  little 
money  and,  as  some  of  the  books  they  wanted 
were  very  costly,  they  copied  entire  books,  writ- 
ing patiently  everyday  after  school  until  they  had 
quite  a  large  library  of  rare  and  valuable  books. 

While  he  was  in  the  last  years  of  his  college 
life,  Louis  determined  that  his  life  work  should 
be  natural  history,  and  his  spare  time  after  this 
decision  was  spent  in  hunting  curious  insects 
from  the  bark  of  trees,  fishing  in  the  streams 
and  ponds  for  different  varieties  of  fish,  and 
studying  the  transformation  of  cocoons  into  but- 
terflies. 


66  TALKS   ABOUT  AUTHORS. 

Although  his  teachers  considered  him  a  re- 
markable student  and  talked  of  his  great  knowl- 
edge of  natural  history,  his  father  and  mother 
still  wanted  him  to  go  into  business.  Louis 
told  his  uncle,  a  doctor,  how  he  hated  the  very 
thought  of  a  business  life,  and  that  he  wanted  to 
study  to  be  a  doctor,  so  he  could  learn  all  about 
anatomy  and  understand  the  bony  structure  of 
animals  and  fishes.  His  uncle  finally  persuaded 
his  father  and  mother  to  let  him  go  to  the  medi- 
cal college  at  Zurich.  Here  he  attracted  atten- 
tion, not  only  by  his  great  knowledge,  but  also 
by  his  physical  appearance.  His  fine  head,  large, 
bright  eyes,  broad,  high  forehead  and  strong, 
sturdy  limbs  made  everyone  feel  that  he  was 
destined  to  be  one  of  the  truly  great  men  of  the 
world. 

While  he  was  at  Zurich,  a  gentleman  passed 
him  one  day  in  a  carriage,  and,  noticing  the  fine- 
looking  young  man,  he  called  him  and  began 
talking  to  him  about  his  plans  for  the  future. 
Agassiz  talked  to  him  in  such  a  frank,  pleasing 
manner,  the  man  was  much  impressed  by  his 
fine  intellect,  and  a  few  days  later  Louis'  father 
received  a  letter  from  the  stranger,  who  was  a 
very  wealthy  gentleman  from  Geneva,  asking 
that  he  might  adopt  his    son,  and  said  that  he 


TALKS    ABOUT    AUTHORS.  67 

would  go  to  the  greatest  expense  to  educate  him. 
This  was,  of  course,  a  tempting  offer  to  the  poor 
minister,  but,  after  careful  thought,  Louis  agreed 
with  his  parents  that  they  could  never  break  any 
of  the  loving  ties  that  bound  them  to  each  other, 
and  they  declined  the  offer  of  the  rich  man. 

Agassiz  was  more  than  a  scientist,  he  knew 
French  and  German  so  well  he  could  think  in 
one  language  while  speaking  the  other.  He  also 
read  Greek  and  Latin,  and  could  speak  English 
and  Italian. 

After  he  graduated  as  a  physician  at  Zurich, 
and  later  at  Heidelberg,  his  parents  thought,  of 
course,  that  he  would  settle  down  in  a  country 
town  to  practice  medicine,  but  this  he  could  not 
do.  He  longed  to  travel,  to  find  rare  specimens, 
and  to  write  books  about  his  beloved  animals. 

When  his  wonderful  book, ''Brazilian  Fishes," 
was  published,  his  parents  began  to  realize  the 
true  genius  of  their  boy,  and  they  were  very 
proud  of  him.  The  father,  when  sending  con- 
gratulations to  him  about  his  book,  wrote,  "The 
old  father  who  waits  for  you  at  home  with  open 
arms,  sends  the  most  tender  greeting." 

Then  happened  the  best  thing  in  all  his  life, 
best  for  the  people  of  America,  anyway. 

Prince  Charles   Bonaparte,  one  of  his  great 


68  TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

friends,  urged  him  to  visit  this  country,  saying 
that  it  would  make  an  epoch  in  science  if  he 
would  come  here  and  study  the  animal  life  of 
our  land. 

After  much  urging  from  his  friends,  Agassiz 
decided  to  visit  the  United  States.  All  the  great 
men,  especially  the  scientists,  were  astonished 
at  his  great  knowledge.  He  was  made  a  Pro- 
fessor in  Harvard  College,  a  visiting  lecturer  at 
Cornell  University,  and  he  was  honored  by  great 
men  all  over  the  country.  He  wrote  many  books 
— some  in  French  and  German,  others  in  English, 

In  the  preface  of  one  of  his  most  important 
books,  "Contributions  to  the  Natural  History  of 
America,"  he  wrote  in  the  edition  that  was  sent 
to  Europe,  "This  book  was  written  mostly  for 
Americans,  and  I  expect  it  to  be  read  by  many 
others  beside  scientists.  I  have  written  it,  know- 
ing that  in  this  country  it  will  be  read  by  farm- 
ers, fishermen,  and  others  in  all  walks  of  life." 

Agassiz  and  his  wife  made  a  trip  to  Brazil  for 
collections  of  specimens,  and  together  they  wrote 
a  most  interesting  book  about  their  travels,  called 
"A  Visit  to  Brazil,"  by  Louis  and  Elizabeth 
Agassiz. 

On  his  fiftieth  birthday  a  dinner  was  given  to 
Agassiz  in  Boston,  by  such  distinguished  men 


TALKS   ABOUT  AUTHORS.  69 

as  Holmes,  Longfellow  and  Hawthorne.  Long- 
fellow recited  a  beautiful  poem  he  had  written 
for  the  occasion,  and  this  is  a  part  of  it: 

It  was  fifty  years  ago 

In  the  pleasant  month  of  May 

In  the  beantiful  Pays  de  Vaud 
A  child  in  its  cradle  lay. 

Nature,  the  old  nurse,  took 

The  child  upon  her  knee 
Saying,  "Here  is  a  story-book 

Thy  Father  hath  written  for  thee." 

"Come  wander  with  me,"  she  said, 

"Into  regions  yet  untrod, 
And  read  what  is  still  unread 

In  the  manuscripts  of  God." 

And  he  wandered  away  and  away 
With  Nature,  the  dear  old  Nurse, 

Who  sang  to  him  night  and  day 
The  songs  of  the  Universe. 

And  whenever  the  way  seemed  long 

Or  his  heart  began  to  fail 
She  would  sing  a  more  wonderful  song 

Or  tell  a  more  wonderful  tale. 

So  she  keeps  him  still  a  child 

And  will  not  let  him  go; 
Though  at  times  his  heart  beats  wild 

For  the  beautiful  Pays  de  Vaud. 

And  the  mother  at  home  says  "Hark! 

For  his  voice  I  listen  and  yearn; 
It  is  growing  late  and  dark 

And  my  boy  does  not  return." 


70  TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

Perhaps  the  most  valuable  work  of  Agassiz's 
life,  beside  his  books,  was  the  founding  at  Cam- 
bridge of  one  of  the  largest  Natural  History 
Museums  in  the  world. 

If  you  ever  visit  Boston  you  must  be  sure  to 
take  a  ride  in  the  electric  car  to  Cambridge, 
where  Harvard  College  is,  and  spend  all  the 
time  you  can  in  the  great  Agassiz  Museum. 
You  will  want  to  stay  a  week  to  examine  the 
many  and  curious  specimens  of  all  sorts  and  kinds 
of  animals,  birds,  fishes,  reptiles  and  insects.  It 
would  take  years  to  see  them  all  and  study  them 
carefully. 

Great  numbers  of  these  specimens  were  col- 
lected by  Agassiz  himself,  although  he  never  lost 
an  opportunity  to  get  others  to  collect  specimens 
for  him.  He  would  send  the  copper  jars  of  the 
museum,  filled  with  alcohol,  on  vessels  going  to 
different  countries,  asking  the  captains  to  bring 
them  back  filled  with  fish  and  all  kinds  of  sea 
and  fresh  water  animals.  In  this  way,  by  earn- 
est and  persistent  effort,  the  great  museum  was 
filled  and  it  is  now  an  enduring  monument  to 
the  Swiss  boy,  who  became  one  of  the  greatest 
scientists  the  world  ever  knew. 


HENRY    WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW. 

Born  February  27,  ISO";  Died  1882. 

Nearly  all  the  American  poets  were  born  in 
New  England,  and  lived  near  Boston,  but  Long- 
fellow did  not  move  to  this  famous  city  of  great 
writers  until  he  was  a  young  man.  He  was  born 
in  the  town  of  Portland,  Maine,  and  graduated 
at  Bowdoin  College,  at  Brunswick. 

Portland  was  a  lively  town,  even  in  the  old 
times,  when  Longfellow  was  a  boy.  It  is  a  sea- 
port, and  there  used  to  be  a  great  trade  from 
there  with  the  West  India  Islands.  Brigs  would 
carry  out  cargoes  of  lumber  and  dried  fish  and 
bring  back  rum,  molasses  and  sugar.  When  a 
ship  load  of  molasses  came  into  Casco  Bay  the 
whole  town  of  Portland  would  be  in  an  uproar. 
The  colored  stevedores  would  sing  as  they  hoisted 
the  heavy  hogsheads  of  molasses  from  the  hold 
of  the  ship.  Maine  has  always  been  noted  for 
its  trade  in  lumber,  and  although  more  lumber  is 
sold  there  today,  there  was  more  noise  and  bustle 
about  the  business  in  the  old  days.  Portland 
had  many  potteries,  and  a  rope-walk,  which  was 
a  long,  low  shed  where  they  made  ropes.     Spin- 

(Tl) 


HENRY  W.    LONGFEI,I<OW. 


Talks  about  authors.  73 

ning  rope  in  that  old  fashion  is  all  done  away 
with  now  by  the  new  machines.  The  boys  of 
today  would  hardly  understand  what  Longfellow 
meant  by  his  poem  called  "The  Rope-Walk." 

"In  that  building,  long  and  low, 
With  its  windows  all  a-row, 

Like  the  port-holes  of  a  hulk, 
Human  spiders  spin  and  spin, 
Backward  down  their  threads  so  thin, 

Dropping  each,  a  hempen  bulk. 

At  the  end,  an  open  door. 
Squares  of  sunshine  on  the  floor 

Ivight  the  long  and  dusty  lane, 
And  the  whirring  of  a  wheel. 
Dull  and  drowsy  makes  me  feel, 

All  its  spokes  are  in  my  brain. 

As  the  spinners  to  the  end 
Downward  go  and  re- ascend. 

Gleam  the  long  threads  in  the  sun, 
While  within  this  brain  of  mine, 
Cobwebs  brighter  and  more  fine, 

By  the  busy  wheels  are  spun." 

Then  he  writes  of  the  visions  called  np  by  the 
spinning  of  the  rope,  visions  of  the  different 
things  the  rope  will  be  used  for.  He  sees  girls 
swinging;  an  old  farm  house,  with  a  woman 
drawing  a  bucket  of  water  with   ropes;  a  circus, 


74 


TALKS    ABOUT   AUTHORS. 


with  a  girl  walking  on  a  rope;  an  old  man  in  a 
tower,  ringing  a  bell;  a  boy,  flying  a  kite;  a  prison 
yard,  with  a  gallows  and  rope;  ships,  with  coils 
of  rope,  and  at  the  end  of  these  pictures  he  writes: 


LO>fGFEI.IvO\V'S    BIRTHPI^ACE. 

"All  these  scenes  do  I  behold, 
These,  and  many  left  untold. 

In  that  building  long  and  low; 
While  the  wheels  go  round  and  round 
With  a  drowsy,  dreamy  sound. 

And  the  spinners  backward  go," 


TALKS    ABOUT    AUTHORS.  75 

Longfellow  also  wrote  a  beautiful  poem  about 
the  potteries  in  his  old  home-town  called  "Ker- 


amos"- 


"Turn,  turn,  my  wheel!  Turn  round  and  round 
Without  a  pause,  without  a  sound; 

So  spins  the  flying  world  away. 
This  clay,  well  mixed  with  marl  and  sand, 
Follows  the  motion  of  my  hand, 
For  some  must  follow,  and  some  command. 

Though  all  are  made  of  clay." 

When  Longfellow  was  about  seventeen  years 
old,  General  Lafayette  visited  Portland,  and 
the  Governor  gave  a  ball  in  his  honor.  A  ter- 
rible storm  came  up  and  many  of  the  guests 
had  to  stay  at  home,  as  there  were  onl}^  a  few 
carriages  in  the  whole  place.  There  were  not 
many  amusements  in  those  days,  as  for  a  long 
time  dancing  had  been  prohibited  by  law,  and 
all  kinds  of  theatrical  performances  had  been 
voted  against  in  the  town  meeting,  where  all 
such  questions  were  decided.  A  theatre  was  at 
last  built  in  1830  as  an  experiment,  but  it  was 
soon  turned  into  a  church. 

When  the  people  of  Portland  wanted  to  go 
to  Boston,  they  had  to  travel  by  stage,  and  it 
took  them  two  days  by  the  accommodation  coach. 
The  mail  coach  took   them  a  little  faster,  but 


76  TALKS    ABOUT    AUTHORS. 

made  their  bones  ache  with  the  jolting  they  re- 
ceived. 

They  had  two  weekly  papers,  but  no  daily 
news,  except  the  old  town-crier,  who  went  around 
crying  the  news  if  anything  unusual  happened. 

Not  much  has  been  written  about  the  boyhood 
of  Longfellow  in  the  old  town,  but  glimpses  are 
given  of  his  boy-life  in  a  chapter  called  "Early 
Days  in  the  Home,"  in  a  book  about  his  life  by 
his  brother,  Samuel  Longfellow. 

He  says,  "  Henry  is  remembered  by  others  as 
a  lively  boy — kind-hearted  and  affectionate — the 
sunlight  of  the  house — true,  highminded  and 
noble."  *  '^  With  all  his  liveliness,  he 
hated  loud  noises,  and  it  was  a  family  tradition 
that  he  begged  his  nurse  to  put  cotton  in  his 
ears  on  the  Fourth  of  July." 

In  the  home  there  were  plenty  of  books  and 
music.  His  father,  who  was  a  lawyer,  had  a 
well-selected  library,  and  Longfellow  loved  to 
read  the  poems  of  Milton  and  many  others.  He 
sometimes  used  to  get  permission  from  his  father 
to  go  down  town  in  the  evening  to  a  Mr.  John- 
son's book-store  to  look  over  the  new  books  that 
had  been  received  from  Boston.  Here,  too,  he 
listened  to  men  talking  about  books.  Longfel- 
low has  written  about  a  book  that  came  into  his 


TALKS    ABOUT    AUTHORS.  77 

life  while  he  was  a  boy.     His  brother  quotes   it 
in  his  story  of  the  poet's  life: 

''Every  reader  has  his  first  book.  I  mean  to 
say,  one  book  among  all  others  which  in  early 
youth  first  fascinates  his  imagination  and  at 
once  excites  and  satisfies  the  desires  of  his  mind. 
To  me  this  first  book  was  the  '  Sketch  Book  of 
Washington  Irving.'  I  was  a  schoolboy  when 
it  was  published,  and  read  each  succeeding  num- 
ber with  ever  increasing  wonder  and  delight. 

"How  many  delightful  books  the  same  author 
has  given  us.  =;=  =^  *  *  =^  Yet,  still  the 
charm  of  the  Sketch  Book  remains  unbroken; 
the  old  fascination  remains  about  it;  and,  when- 
ever I  open  its  pages,  I  open  also  that  mys- 
terious door  which  leads  back  into  the  haunted 
chambers  of  youth." 

The  Longfellow  children  were  taught  to  sing. 
The  most  popular  songs  at  that  time  were  "  The 
Battle  of  Prague,"  "  Washington's  March,"  "Oft 
in  the  Stilly  Night,"  "  The  Last  Rose  of  Sum- 
mer," and  others  whose  titles  are  not  so  familiar 
to  us.  They  were  also  taught  to  dance  to  the 
tunes  of  "  Money  IMusk,"  "  The  Fisher's  Horn- 
Pipe,"  and  "  The  Hay-Makers."  The  evenings 
were  spent  round  the  table  studying  their  les- 
sons, and  often  playing  games  in  the  large  old 


78  TALKS    ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

kitchen,  where  there  was  a  broad  open  fire-place 
with  a  hanging-crane.  They  stayed  np  as  late  as 
they  conld,  for  it  was  hard  to  go  up  stairs  to  the 
cold  bed-rooms.  In  the  morning  they  crept  out 
of  their  soft,  warm  feather  beds,  and  broke  the 
ice  in  the  pitchers  to  wash  their  faces.  Henry 
Longfellow,  with  this  simple,  healthy  boy-life, 
became  strong  and  rugged.  He  was  sent  to 
school  when  only  three  years  old.  A  colored 
man  who  worked  for  his  father  carried  him  in 
front  of  him  on  horseback.  When  he  was  five 
years  old  they  sent  him  to  a  public  school  quite 
near  his  home,  but  he  came  home  one  day  very 
angry,  saying  the  teacher  had  accused  him  of  tell- 
ing a  lie,  so  he  was  allowed  to  leave  that  school. 
At  ten  he  was  doing  well  in  Latin  and  his  other 
studies  and  began  to  prepare  for  college.  In  these 
days  boys  went  to  school  very  young,  and  Henry 
Longfellow  was  only  fourteen  years  old  when  he 
entered  Bowdoin  College  in  Brunswick,  Maine. 

When  he  was  only  thirteen  he  published  his 
first  poem  in  the  "  Gazette."  It  was  called  *'  The 
Battle  of  Loveli's  Pond."  It  recorded  a  battle 
between  Lovell  and  the  Indians,  which  took  place 
near  Hiram,  where  his  grandfather  lived.  The 
few  men  who  escaped  had  run  down  the  road  to 
Ossipee,  past  the  old  homestead.     The  poem  was 


TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 


79 


dropped  into  the  letter  box  at  the  printing  office, 
and  the  night  before  the  paper  was  printed  he 
went  down  to  the  office  again  and  looked  in  the 
windows,  shivering  in  the  cold  but  not  daring  to 
go  in.  No  one  but  his  sister  knew  the  secret, 
and  they  were  both  much  excited  when  the  paper 


,.imL  I''*  ■  ■--  . 


BOWDOIN   COLLEGE. 

came  next  morning.  They  had  to  wait  while 
their  father  slowly  read  the  paper,  and  they 
eagerly  looked  it  over  when  their  turn  came  and 
found  the  poem  was  there,  signed  "  Henry." 
From  the  success  of  this  experiment  he  was 
encouraged  to  keep  on  writing,  and  soon  papers 


80  TALKS    ABOUT    AUTHORS. 

and  magazines  were  glad  to  get  his  poems  as  he 
wrote  year  after  year  in  his  school  and  college 
days.  His  vacations  were  spent  at  his  grand- 
father's home  near  Portland,  and  the  farm-life 
was  delightful  to  the  boy  who  loved  all  nature. 
He  followed  the  mowers,  picked  berries,  went 
after  the  cows  at  night,  helped  the  girls  in  the 
dairy  to  churn,  and  in  the  fall  he  enjoyed  the 
corn-husking  frolics  and  the  spinning  and 
quilting  bees.  He  sometimes  went  with  his 
grandfather  Longfellow  on  a  long  ride  to  visit 
his  grandfather  Wadsworth,  who  lived  on  an 
estate  of  seven  thousand  acres.  This  old  man 
had  been  an  Adjutant-General  in  the  Revolu- 
tionary War,  and  the  children  looked  up  to  him 
with  awe.  He  wore  a  cocked  hat,  and  buckles 
on  his  shoes ;  his  hair  was  powdered  and  tied 
behind  in  a  cue.  He  told  the  children  thrilling 
stories  of  the  war,  of  his  capture  by  the  British, 
who  put  him  in  a  prison  at  Fort  George,  where 
he  had  a  remarkable  escape. 

A  poem  called  "My  Lost  Youth"  expresses 
very  beautifully  Longfellow's  memories  of  the 
town  of  Portland  and  his  boyish  fancies  and 
feelings: 

Often  I  think  of  the  beautiful  town 
That  is  seated  by  the  sea, 


TALKS    ABOUT    AUTHORS.  81 

Often  in  thought  go  up  and  down 

The  pleasant  streets  of  that  dear  old  town, 

And  my  youth  comes  back  to  me, 
And  a  verse  of  a  I^apland  song 

Is  haunting  my  memory  still, 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts. " 

I  remember  the  black  wharves  and  the  slips, 

And  the  sea-tides  tossing  free; 
And  Spanish  sailors  with  bearded  lips, 
And  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships. 

And  the  magic  of  the  sea. 
And  the  voice  of  that  way-ward  song, 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  sea-fight  far  away. 

How  it  thundered  o'er  the  tide. 
And  the  dead  captains  as  they  lay 
In  their  graves  o'erlooking  the  tranquil  bay, 
And  the  music  of  that  old  song 

Throbs  in  my  memory  still. 

%s^  nj^  ^^  *^  ^j^  «^  ki^ 

*j»  *j*  >^  ^f*  *r»  ^*  ^^ 

And  Deering's  woods  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  with  joy  that  is  almost  pain 
M}^  heart  goes  back  to  wander  there. 
And  among  the  dreams  of  the  days  that  were 

I  find  m)'  lost  youth  again. 
And  the  strange  and  beautiful  song 
The  groves  are  repeating  it  still, 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 


82 


TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS. 


Henry  Longfellow  became  one  of  the  great 
poets  of  the  world  while  still  a  young  man. 
Bvangeline,  Hiawatha,  and  many  other  poems 
have  been  translated  into  other  languages.  He 
traveled  in   Europe,  and  wrote  both  prose   and 


CRAIGIE   HOUSE. 


poetry  about  the  scenes  in  other  lands.  He  was 
made  Professor  of  Modern  Languages  in  Har- 
vard College,  after  serving  as  Professor  in  his 
own  college.  All  the  honors  he  received  made 
him  happy,  but  never  selfish  or  unfriendly. 
His  love  for  children   is   shown  in  his  poems 


TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS.  S3 

and  told  of  in  many  ways   by  his  friends.     In 
one  of  his  poems  called  ''Children,"  he  writes : 

"Come  to  me,  O  ye  children! 

And  whisper  in  my  ear 
What  the  birds  and  the  winds  are  singing, 

In  your  sunny  atmosphere. 

For  what  are  all  our  contrivings. 

And  the  wisdom  of  our  books. 
When  compared  with  your  caresses 

And  the  gladness  of  your  looks. 

Ye  are  better  than  all  the  ballads 

That  ever  were  sung  or  said: 
For  ye  are  living  poems, 

And  all  the  rest  are  dead." 

"The  Children's  Hour"  is  a  beautiful  poem 
written  about  his  own  little  girls — Alice,  Allegra 
and  Edith — but  he  meant  it  for  all  children : 

"I  have  you  fast  in  my  fortress, 

And  will  not  let  you  depart. 
But  put  you  down  in  the  dungeon, 

In  the  round  tower  of  my  heart." 

Perhaps  the  sweetest  one  of  all  is  called  "Weari- 
ness," where  he  speaks  of  the  little  feet  that  have 
such  a  long,  weary  way  to  travel,  the  little  hands 
that  have  so  much  to  do  in  the  world,  and  the 
eager  little  hearts  and  pure  souls  of  childhood. 

He  always  felt  a  deep  interest  in  the  affairs  of 
the  city  of  Cambridge,  where  he  lived.     At  one 


84  TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

time,  lie  pleaded  with  tlie  city  officers  to  spare 
"The  spreading  chestnut  tree"  that  grew  in 
front  of  the  smithy,  which  he  describes  in  his 
"Village  Blacksmith,"  but  the  tree  had  to  be  cut 
down  to  widen  Brattle  Street.  Then,  to  make 
the  poet  feel  happier  about  it,  the  public  school 
children  subscribed  a  fund,  with  which  to  have  a 
handsome  chair  made  out  of  the  wood  of  the  tree. 
It  was  given  to  him  on  his  seventy-second  birth- 
day. He  was  very  much  pleased,  and  wrote  a 
poem  about  it  for  the  children,  which  begins 

"Am  I  a  king  that  I  should  call  my  own 
This  splendid  ebon  throne; 
Or  by  what  reason,  or  what  right  divine, 
Can  I  proclaim  it  mine?" 

He  was  a  good  friend  to  the  poor  and  friend- 
less, helping  many  young  authors  to  get  their 
stories  and  poems  published. 

He  was  always  pleasant  and  patient  with  the 
many  strangers  who  visited  him.  Tike  Whit- 
tier,  he  felt  very  indignant  over  the  wrongs  of 
the  slaves,  and  early  in  his  life  he  wrote  stirring 
poems  about  the  bitter  injustice  of  buying  and 
selling  human  beings. 

Some  of  his  friends  believed  in  slavery,  but 
many  others  were  glad  to  read  his  earnest,  burn- 
ing words.  Charles  Dickens  wrote  from  England : 


TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS, 


85 


"Heaven    speed     your     slavery    poems,    I    am 
looking  for  them  eagerly." 

Longfellow's  poems  on  Slavery  were  written 
in  1842,  while  on  the  ocean,  returning  from 
Europe.    "The  Slave's  Dream,"  "The  Quadroon 


HiSia', 


?|Ui**'*a*a«i'- 


LONGFEIyI,0\V's   CHAIR. 

Girl"  and  "The  Witnesses"  are   the  names  of 

some  of  the  slave  poems.    The  last  verse  of  "The 

Warning"   shows  the    power   and    force   of  his 

pleadings : 

"There  is  a  poor  blind  Samson  in  this  land, 

Shorn  of  his  strength,  and  bound  in  bonds  of  steel, 


86  TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

Who  may,  in  some  grim  revel,  raise  his  hand 
And  shake  the  pillars  of  this  common  weal 
Till  the  vast  temple  of  our  liberties 
A  shapeless  mass  of  wreck  and  rubbish  lies. ' ' 

From  these  glimpses  of  Longfellow's  life  and 
work  we  know  that  he  truly  felt  "Life  is  real, 
life  is  earnest,"  and  his  own  life  was  planned  as 
the  structure  he  writes  of  in  "The  Builders:" 

"All  are  architects  of  Fate 
Working  in  these  walls  of  Time, 

Some  with  massive  deeds  and  great, 
Some  with  ornaments  of  rhyme. 

Nothing  useless  is,  or  low, 

Each  thing  in  its  place  is  best, 
And  what  seems  but  idle  show 

Strengthens  and  supports  the  rest. 

For  the  structure  that  we  raise. 

Time  is  with  materials  filled; 
Our  to-days  and  yesterdays 

Are  the  blocks  with  which  we  build. 

In  the  elder  days  of  Art, 

Builders  wrought  with  greatest  care 

Each  minute  and  unseen  part, 
For  the  Gods  see  everywhere. 

lyCt  us  do  our  work  as  well. 

Both  the  unseen  and  the  seen. 
Make  the  house  where  Gods  may  dwell. 

Beautiful,  entire  and  clean." 


TALKS   ABOUT  AUTHORS. 


87 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 
THE  QUAKER  BOY. 

Born   December   17,    1S07;    Died   1892. 

All  who  look  at  the  picture  of  the  good  Quaker 
poet  are  apt  to  think  of  him  as  a  very  solemn, 
quiet  man,  but  those  who  knew  him  best  tell  of 


WHITTIER. 


his  love  of  fun  and  his  interest  in  young  folks. 
When  he  was  a  boy  he  worked  on  his  father's 
farm,  which  was  about  three  miles  from  the  town 
of  Haverhill,  Massachusetts.  As  he  merrily 
trudged  up  the  lane  from  the  fields,  or  hoed  the 


88  TALKS   ABOUT   AtTTHORS. 

corn,  or  drove  the  cows,  he  must  have  looked  like 
his  own  description  of  "The  Barefoot  Boy." 
Every  child  who  can  read  is  familiar  with  this 
beautiful  poem: 

"Blessings  on  thee,  little  man, 
Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan, 
With  thy  turned  up  pantaloons 
And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes, 

;ic  H(  4^  4^  H< 

From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy, 
I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy. ' ' 

John  was  a  happy  boy  in  his  quiet  country 
home  which  he  has  described  in  his  poem  called 
"Snow  Bound."  His  mother  told  the  children 
Indian  stores  as  she  sat  at  her  spinning  wheel, 
and  stories  of  her  childhood.  She  was  a  very 
kind-hearted  woman  and  the  Whittier  home  was 
seldom  without  visitors.  The  Quakers  or  Friends 
did  not  live  close  together,  so  the  leaders,  the 
travelling  ministers,  often  stopped  with  the 
Whittier's.  Sometimes  there  would  be  ten  or 
twelve  strangers  in  the  house  at  one  time  to  stay 
over  night,  and  at  such  times  some  of  them  had 
to  sleep  in  the  large  barn. 

Mrs.  Whittier  would  give  food  to  strangers  who 
came  to  her  door,  and  often  a  night's  lodging. 
One  night  she  was  frightened  by  a  man  with 
a  dark  skin  and  piercing  black  eyes,   who  asked 


TALKS    ABOUT    AUTHORS. 


89 


her  to  give  him  a  place  to  sleep.  For  once  she 
refused  and  turned  from  the  door  very  hastily, 
but  after  she  had  thought  about  it  a  moment  she 


jjiYifiiiifr^^ 


WHITTIER'S   BIRTH-PLACE. 


said,  "I  am  sorry  I  told  him  to  go;  how  would  I 
feel  if  my  son  was  traveling  in  a  strange  country 
and  he  should  suffer  for  a  place  to  rest  at  night." 
When  she  told  John  about  it,  he  offered   to  run 


90  TAtKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

after  the  man  and  bring  him  back.  She  eagerly 
assented,  and  the  boy  ran  over  the  fields  to  the 
next  farm-house  and  found  the  stranger  who  had 
just  been  turned  from  the  door.  When  the  boy 
came  up  to  him  he  was  standing  in  a  very  dis- 
couraged manner,  not  knowing  where  to  go,  and 
he  was  very  grateful  and  glad  to  go  back  to  the 
comfortable  farm  house.  He  was  a  rather  fierce- 
looking  Italian,  but  very  social,  and  when  they 
gathered  round  the  hearth  in  the  evening  he 
told  them  in  broken  words  and  with  many  gest- 
ures, stories  about  his  own  sunny  Italy.  He 
told  the  mother  a  good  way  to  make  bread  from 
chestnuts,  and  the  children  all  about  the  grape- 
pickings  and  festivals  of  his  country.  In  the 
morning  when  he  said  good-bye  with  many 
warm  words,  they  wondered  why  they  had  been 
so  afraid  of  him  the  night  before. 

One  day  an  old  Scotchman  visited  the  house 
and  from  him  Whittier  gained  his  first  knowledge 
of  Burns'  poetry.  After  eating  some  bread  and 
cheese,  and  drinking  a  mug  of  cider,  the  old 
Scotchman  began  to  sing  "Bonnie  Doon"  and 
"Highland  Mary."  The  boy  listened  with  de- 
light to  the  full  rich  tones,  and  the  Scotch  words 
pleased  his  poetic  nature.  He  remembered  this 
music  for  a  long  time  and  was  very  glad  when 


TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 


91 


his  old  school-teacher  brought  a  book  of  Burns' 
poems   to  the    house    when  he  was  about   four- 


THE  BAREFOOT  BOY. 


teen  years  old.      Begging  the  teacher  to  leave 
the  book  there  for  a  while,  he   set  to  work  to. 


92  TALKS    ABOUT    AUTHORS. 

study  out  the  meaning  of  the  Scotch  words. 
This  was  almost  the  first  real  poetry  he  had  ever 
read  and  it  inspired  him  to  write  out  his  own 
thoughts.  He  had  scribbled  verses  on  his  slate 
instead  of  doing  his  school  work  when  he  was 
only  a  little  boy,  and  he  kept  on  thinking  poems 
as  he  worked  on  the  farm  with  very  little  chance 
to  write  them.  As  he  hoed  the  furrows  in  the 
field  he  would  sometimes  lean  on  his  hoe  forget- 
ting his  work  and  everything  around  him,  his 
mind  fully  absorbed  in  his  fancies  and  poetic 
dreams.  Then  his  father  would  call  out  "That's 
enough  now,  John."  He  was  absorbing  all  the 
beautiful  sights  and  sounds  about  him,  but  he 
was  restless,  feeling  that  there  was  something  in 
him  that  ought  to  find  expression. 

It  must  have  been  a  great  treat  to  him  when 
twice  a  year  they  had  a  visit  from  old  Jonathan 
Plummer.  He  made  verses,  was  a  doctor,  and  a 
parson,  and  sold  pins,  needles,  cotton,  knives, 
razors,  etc.  He  also  sold  his  own  verses,  illus- 
trated with  wood-cuts,  which  the  children  prized 
very  much. 

He  was  independent  and  very  religious,  and 
liked  to  talk  about  the  scripture  to  the  older 
folks.  He  never  trusted  any  one,  and  when 
they  sat  down  to  dinner  he  would  draw  his  basket 


TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS.  93 

close  to  his  legs  under  the  table.  The  father 
would  say,  "Never  mind  thy  basket,  Jonathan,  we 
shan't  steal  thy  verses."  The  old  Yankee  would 
answer,  "I  am  not  sure  of  that;  it  is  written, 
trust  ye  not  in  a  brother."  He  was  the  last 
minstrel  of  the  Merrimac  valley. 

When  Whittier  was  a  lad  of  nineteen,  he  sent 
a  poem  to  a  paper  called  "The  Free  Press"  pub- 
lished by  a  young  man  in  Newburyport,  named 
William  Lloyd  Garrison.  It  so  pleased  the  young 
editor  that  he  drove  out  to  the  farm  to  see  the 
writer.  Whittier  was  out  in  the  field  hoeing, 
when  the  carriage  drove  up  and  the  editor  in- 
quired for  John  Greenleaf  Whittier.  The  lad 
was  astonished  and  ran  into  the  house  by  the 
back  door  to  make  himself  presentable.  The 
editor  told  him  that  he  discovered  signs  of  un- 
usual talent  in  his  work,  and  urged  him  to  take 
some  course  of  study  as  a  training  for  a  literary 
future.  Up  to  this  time  the  boy's  opportunities 
for  education  had  been  very  limited,  as  the  father 
had  very  little  money.  The  father  was  called  in, 
and  they  talked  the  matter  over  seriously.  John, 
himself,  thought  of  a  way  to  accomplish  a  higher 
education  by  engaging  a  young  man  who  knew 
how  to  make  shoes  to  teach  him  the  trade.  He 
learned  to  make  shoes  in  one  winter,  and  by  hard 


94  TAI^KS   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

work  earned  enougli  money  to  pay  for  six  months' 
board  and  tuition  in  Haverhill  Academy. 

He  was  in  his  twentieth  year  at  this  time,  and 
by  his  talents  soon  became  a  great  favorite  at  the 
school.  He  wrote  a  poem  for  the  dedication  of 
the  new  school  building,  which  was  published, 
and  received  much  praise.  From  this  time  he 
was  considered  a  true  poet.  When  he  was  about 
twenty-one  he  made  his  first  visit  to  Boston, 
\vhich  was  a  great  event  in  his  life.  He  had  a 
new  suit  with  what  he  called  "boughten  buttons." 
Before  this  time  he  had  worn  home-made  buttons. 
He  felt  very  proud  and  often  laughed  at  himself 
afterward,  when  he  thought  of  how  he  stood  on 
the  crowded  streets  of  Boston,  and  wondered  if 
anyone  noticed  his  buttons. 

After  his  term  of  study  at  the  Academy  he 
edited  a  home  paper  and  the  Hartford  "  New 
England  Review,"  while  he  still  lived  at  home 
and  helped  his  parents.  He  worked  hard  during 
all  the  time  of  his  youth,  always  writing  poems 
in  his  spare  time,  and  finally  succeeded  in  getting 
a  volume  published. 

He  soon  became  known  to  all  the  writers  and 
thinkers  of  Boston  and  of  all  New  England. 
Emerson,  Lowell,  Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps,  Har- 
riet Beecher  Stowe,  Hawthorne  and  many  others 
were  numbered  among  his  truest  friends. 


TALKS    ABOUT    AUTHORS.  95 

Early  in  life  he  began  to  take  a  deep  interest 
in  politics,  and  when  William  Lloyd  Garrison, 
his  first  publisher,  came  out  in  his  fiery  denun- 
ciation of  slavery,  Whittier's  whole  soul  warmed 
with  a  hearty  response  to  his  appeals.  All  his 
dreams  of  literary  fame  faded  away  in  the  thought 
of  the  great  duty  that  had  come  to  him — 

"Never  yet  to  Hebrew  seer 
A  clearer  voice  of  dutj^  came." 

He  said:  "  My  soul  spoke  out  against  the 
wrong." 

"Forego  thy  dreams  of  lettered  ease, 
Put  thou  the  scholar's  promise  by, 

The  rights  of  man  are  more  than  these. 
He  heard  and  answered,  'Here  am  I.' 

Beyond  the  poet's  sweet  dream  lives 
The  eternal  epic  of  the  man.  " 

While  other  poets  traveled  in  foreign  lands 
and  studied  in  their  libraries,  Whittier  gave  the 
best  years  of  his  life  to  earnest  work  for  freeing 
the  slaves,  served  in  the  JMassachusetts  Legisla- 
ture, and  stood  by  Garrison,  who  sent  forth  his 
paper  called  "The  Liberator"  from  a  garret  room 
in  Boston.  With  a  friend  named  Isaac  Knapp, 
and  a  negro  boy  to  help  them,  they  did  all  the 
work  on  the  paper.  For  his  work  for  liberty. 
Garrison  was  mobbed  and  dragged  through  the 


96  TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

city,  bareheaded,  with  his  clothes  torn,  and 
Whitcier  himself  was  in  furious  mobs  of  angry- 
people  at  abolitionists'  meetings.  All  these  ex- 
periences roused  the  warlike  spirit  that  must 
have  been  bom  in  him,  in  spite  of  his  Quaker 
training.  Whittier  wrote  of  this  feeling:  "With- 
out intending  any  disparagement  of  my  peaceable' 
ancestry  for  many  generations,  I  have  still  strong 
suspicions  that  somewhat  of  the  old  Norman 
blood  has  been  bequeathed  to  me.  How  else  can 
I  account  for  the  intense  childish  eagerness  with 
which  I  listened  to  the  stories  of  old  campaigners 
who  fought  their  battles  over  again  in  my  hear- 
ing? Why  did  I,  in  my  young  fancy,  go  up  with 
Jonathan  to  smite  the  Philistines?  Why  was 
Mr.  Greatheart  in  'Pilgrim's  Progress'  my  favor- 
ite character?  Why  did  I  follow  Ossian  over 
Morven's  battle-field?  I  can  account  for  it  only 
on  the  suppositionthat  the  mischief  was  inherited 
— an  heirloom  from  the  old  sea-kings  of  the 
ninth  century.'' 

The  Quakers  did  not  believe  in  fighting,  but 
Whittier  inspired  men  to  fight  for  the  liberty  of 
the  slaves  by  his  war-songs.  As  early  as  1834 
he  wrote  these  thrilling  verses : 

"  What,  ho  !  our  countrymen  in  chains! 
The  whip  on  woman's  shrinking  flesh! 


TALKS    ABOUT    AUTHORS,  97, 

Our  soil  yet  reddening  with  stains 

Caught  from  her  scourging  warm  and  fresh! 

What!  God's  own  image  bought  and  sold! 
Americans  to  market  driven, 

And  bartered  as  the  brute  for  gold! 

"  Speak!    Shall  their  agony  of  prayer 

Come  thrilling  to  our  hearts  in  vain  ? 
To  us  whose  fathers  scorned  to  hear 

The  paltry  menace  of  a  chain, 
To  us  whose  boast  is  loud  and  long 

Of  holy  liberty  and  light, 
Say !     Shall  these  writhing  slaves  of  Wrong 

Plead  vainly  for  their  plundered  Right  ? 

"  Up,  then,  in  Freedom's  manly  part, 

From  gray-beard  old  to  fiery  youth, 
And  on  the  nation's  naked  heart 

Scatter  the  living  coals  of  Truth. 
Up!  while  ye  slumber  deeper  yet 

The  shadow  of  our  fame  is  growing. 
Up!  while  ye  pause  our  sun  may  set 

In  blood  around  our  altars  flowing." 

With  poems  like  this  he  roused  men  and 
women  to  realize  the  terrible  curse  of  slavery. 
Long  years  after,  when  the  war  was  over  and 
the  slaves  were  free,  he  looked  back  on  these 
years  of  sacrifice  and  felt  thankful  that  he  had 
been  able  to  help  along  the  cause  of  freedom  by 
his  pen.  His  friend,  another  great  poet,  James 
Russell  Lowell,  said  that  Whittier's  poems  were 


98 


TALKS   ABOUT  AUTHORS. 


((  O 


Sweetly  familiar  to  all  England's  ear."  Jolin 
Bright,  the  Englishman,  used  to  repeat  page 
after  page  of  his  poems  and  said,  "  I  would  rather 
see  Whittier  than  any  man  in  your  country.  If 
I  go  to  America  I  shall  see  him  first." 


WHITTIER'S   HOME.  —  AMESBURY,    MASS. 

He  received  tributes  from  other  great  men  of 
England  and  other  countries,  but  he  was  always 
the  same  plain  old  Quaker,  living  quietly  in  his 
country  home.     As  his  old  friends  passed  away 


TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS.  99 

he  clung  closely  to  those  who  were  left.  Writing 
of  Emerson's  death  he  said  :  "And  now  Emerson 
has  passed  on !  How  the  great  and  good  are 
leaving  us.  There  is  nothing  now  for  us  but  to 
love  God,  and  good  men  and  one  another  more." 
One  perfect  summer's  morning  he  slipped 
quietly  awa}^  from  this  life.  His  last  words 
were,  "  My  love  to  the  world."  There  was  no 
church  large  enough  to  hold  the  friends  who 
gathered  to  honor  his  memory,  so  in  his  own 
garden,  under  the  trees  he  loved,  thousands 
passed  to  look  for  the  last  time  on  his  gentle 
face.  And  in  the  deep  silence  a  dear  Quaker 
friend  repeated  one  of  his  last  songs: 

"No  gate  of  pearl,  no  branch  of  palm  I  merit, 
Nor  street  of  shining  gold, 

^K  ^j^  ^1^  ^Y^  ^^  ^1^ 

Some  humble  door  among  thy  many  mansions, 

Some  sheltering  shade  where  sin  and  striving  cease, 
And  flows  forever  through  heaven's  green  expansions 

The  river  of  thy  peace. 
There  from  the  music  round  about  me  stealing 

I  fain  would  learn  the  new  and  holy  song, 
And  find  at  last,  beneath  thy  trees  of  healing 

The  life  for  which  I  long." 


CHARLES  DICKENS. 


CHARLES  DICKENS,  AND  SOME  OF  HIS 

CHILDREN. 

Boru,  February  7,  1812;  Died  1S70. 

Three  Stories  from  Dickens. 
DAVID  COPPERFlEIvD. 

Many  children  who  like  to  read  "David  Copper- 
field"  do  not  known  that  it  is  almost  the  true 
story  of  Dickens'  own  life.  His  boyhood  was 
just  as  full  of  care  and  sorrow  as  David's,  and 
while  we  find  most  of  it  told  in  the  one  book, 
different  scenes  of  his  life  are  found  in  his  other 
books.  In  the  story  of  "Little  Dorritt"  we  read 
much  about  the  Marshalsea  Prison  and  Little 
Dorritt's  life  there.  This  too,  is  a  picture  from 
the  memory  of  his  own  childhood,  for  he  often 
visited  his  father  in  the  same  old  Marshalsea 
when  he  was  confined  there  because  he  couldn't 
pay  his  debts.  What  a  hard  time  Dickens  had 
we  will  learn  about  in  David's  story.  The  very 
beginning  of  David  Copperfield's  life  was  not  like 
that  of  Charles  Dickens,  but  his  after  life  was 
much  like  the  story.  David's  father  died  when 
he  was  just  a  baby,  and  his  mother,  a  pretty,  weak 
little  woman,  married  a  cross  man  named  Mr. 
Murdstone.     He  did  not  like  children  at  all,  and 

(101) 


102  TAI,KS    ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

poor  David  had  a  hard  time.  Mr.  Murdstone 
took  him  away  from  his  mother  and  his  kind  old 
nurse  Peggotty,  to  a  school  near  London.  It 
was  not  a  good  school  with  kind  teachers 
such  as  boys  have  today.  David's  teacher,  Mr. 
Creakle,  used  to  raise  great  red  ridges  on  the  poor 
backs  of  the  little  boys  by  caning  them  two  or 
three  times  a  day,  and  a  boy  cannot  be  very 
happy  or  learn  much  when  he  is  in  constant  fear 
of  a  whipping. 

When  he  went  home  for  the  holidays,  he  spent 
a  few  happy  weeks  with  his  mother,  but  a  cloud 
seemed  to  be  hanging  over  the  little  home.  His 
step-father,  Mr.  Murdstone,  did  not  love  him,  and 
his  mother  was  afraid  and  sad  all  the  time,  and 
soon  after  the  holidays,  after  his  return  to  old 
Creakle's  school,  she  died.  This  was  a  terrible  sor- 
row for  David  and  changed  his  whole  life.  His 
step-father  put  him  in  a  counting  house  in  Lon- 
don. At  this  time  he  was  only  ten  years  old, 
motherless  and  forlorn.  He  worked  in  a  corner 
of  the  dark  old  warehouse  pasting  labels  on  bot- 
tles. After  the  shop  was  closed,  little  as  he  was, 
David  had  to  buy  his  own  meals  at  a  Pudding 
Shop.  Dickens  says  of  himself  about  this  time 
of  his  life:  "What  the  waiter  thought  of  such  a 
strange  little  apparition  coming  in  all  alone  I 


TALKS    ABOUT   AUTHORS.  103 

don't  know,  but  I  can  see  liim  now  staring  at  me 
as  I  ate  my  dinner.''  David  felt  so  lonely,  so  de- 
serted, tliat  many  times  lie  would  creep  off  into  a 
corner,  by  himself,  and  cry  for  his  dear 
mother. 

One  day,  as  he  thought  over  his  trials,  he  de- 
termined to  run  away,  for  he  couldn't  possibly 
stand  his  loneliness  any  longer.  But  where  could 
he  go?  His  old  nurse  Peggotty  was  married 
and  she  would  be  glad  to  have  him  come  to  her, 
but  she  lived  so  far  away.  Then  he  remembered 
that  he  had  heard  his  mother  speak  of  an  old 
aunt  of  hers  named  Betsey  Trotwood,  so  he  wrote 
to  Peggotty  to  find  out  where  his  aunt  lived.  He 
told  her  that  he  needed  some  money,  and  the 
good  old  nurse,  never  dreaming  that  the  child 
was  planning  to  run  away,  sent  him  more  than 
he  asked  for.  David  got  a  boy  to  help  him  move 
his  box  to  the  coach-office,  where  he  was  to  start 
on  his  journey. 

The  bad  boy  stole  his  money  and  his  box  and 
left  David  standing  in  the  road  with  only  three 
half-pence  in  his  pocket,  but  he  had  no  idea  of  turn- 
ing back,  even  after  such  a  sad  fall  from  his  bright 
hopes.  He  trudged  along  the  road,  sleeping  in 
fence  corners  at  night,  sometimes  walking  twenty 
miles  a  day.     He  had  to  sell  his  little  vest  to 


104  TALKS    ABOUT    AUTHORS. 

get  food,  and  many  kind-hearted  farmers'  wives 
gave  him  milk  to  drink  and  an  occasional  meal. 

At  last,  after  six  days  of  weary  tramping,  he 
reached  Dover,  where  he  hoped  to  find  his  aunt. 

He  says  of  his  arrival  at  Dover:  "When  I 
came  at  last  upon  the  bare,  wide  downs  near 
Dover,  it  relieved  the  solitary  aspect  of  the  scene 
with  hope,  and  not  until  I  reached  the  first  great 
aim  of  my  journey  and  actually  set  foot  in  the 
town  itself  on  the  sixth  day  of  ni}^  flight,  did  it 
desert  me.  But  then,  strange  to  say,  when  I 
stood  with  my  ragged  shoes  and  my  dusty,  sun- 
burnt, half-clothed  figure  in  the  place  so  long 
desired,  hope  seemed  to  vanish  like  a  dream  and 
to  leave  me  helpless.  My  shirt  and  trousers 
stained  with  dew,  heat,  grass  and  the  Kentish 
soil  on  which  I  had  slept,  might  have  frightened 
the  birds  from  my  aunt's  garden  as  I  stood  at  the 
gate.  From  head  to  foot  I  was  powdered  almost 
as  white  as  chalk  with  dust,  as  if  I'd  come  out 
of  a  lime-kiln.  In  this  plight  I  waited  to  intro- 
duce myself  to  my  aunt.'' 

While  he  \vas  standing  in  front  of  his  aunt's 
house,  waiting  to  knock,  the  lady  herself  came 
rushing  out  of  the  house,  waving  her  hands  and 
shouting  out,  "Go  away.  No  boys  here!  Go 
along.'' 


TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS.  105 

But  poor  David  went  slowly  up  to  lier  saying, 
''If  you  please  ma'am,  if  you  please,  aunt,  I  am 
David  Copperfield.'' 

For  a  moment  the  old  lady  sat  down,  flat,  in 
the  garden  path,  staring  at  poor  David  in  amaze- 
ment, just  having  breath  enough  left  to  say, 
"Mercy  on  us!''  Then  she  dragged  him  into  the 
house,  pouring  all  sorts  of  medicine  down  his 
throat,  as  the  poor  boy,  broken  down  by  his  long 
tramp,  began  to  cry  and  sob.  His  aunt,  after 
she  recovered  from  her  surprise,  heard  his  story, 
and  was  filled  with  pity  for  the  poor  boy  who 
had  been  turned  out  in  the  world.  She  took 
care  of  him  after  that,  and  was  just  like  a  good 
mother  to  him.  We  will  leave  his  story  here, 
but  there  is  much  more  about  his  life  in  the  large 
book  called  "David  Copperfield." 

There  are  other  children  of  Dickens'  you  would 
like  to  read  about — "Oliver  Twist,"  poor  "Smike" 
in  "Nicholas  Nickleby,"  "Little  Dorritt,"  and 
many  others.  By  reading  their  stories  you  will 
learn  what  -a  kind  heart  Charles  Dickens  had 
and  how  much  he  loved  the  poor  people  of  Eng- 
land. The  stories  he  wrote  were  the  lives  of  the 
people  he  met  in  his  daily  life,  and  he  wished  to 
help  every  one  who  read  them  to  learn  to  love 
each  other  more, 


106  TALKS   ABOUT    AUTHORS. 

DICKENS  IN  CAMP. 

BY  BRET  HARTE. 

Selected  from  "■Children  of  the  Poets. '' 
"Above  the  pines  the  moon  was  slowly  dimpling, 

The  river  sang  below, 
The  dim  Sierras,  from  beyond  uplifting 

Their  minarets  of  snow. 
"The  roaring  camp-fire,  with  rude  humour  painted 

The  ruddy  tints  of  health 
On  haggard  face  and  form  that  drooped  and  fainted 

In  the  fierce  race  for  wealth; 

"Till  one  arose  and  from  his  pack's  scant  treasure 

A  hoarded  volume  drew. 
And  cards  were  dropped  from  hands  of  listless  leisure 

To  hear  the  tale  anew. 
"And  then,  while  round  them  shadows  gathered  faster, 

And  as  the  fire-light  fell, 
He  read  aloud  the  book  wherein  the  Master 

Had  writ  of  "Uttle  Nell." 
"The  fir-trees,  gathering  closer  in  the  shadows, 

Listened  in  everj'  spray, 
Whilethe  whole  camp,  with  "Nell"  on  English  meadows 

Wandered  and  lost  their  way. 
"And  so  in  mountain  solitudes — o'ertaken 

As  by  some  spell  divine — 
Their  cares  dropped  from  them  like  the  needles  shaken 

From  out  the  gusty  pine. 

"Eost  is  that  camp,  and  wasted  all  its  fire, 

And  he  who  wrought  that  spell  ? — 
Ah,  towering  pine  and  stately  Kentish  spire., 

Ye  have  one  tale  to  tell. 


TALK.S  ABOUT  AUTHORS.  107 

"And  on  that  grave  where  English  oak  and  holly 

And  laurel  wreaths  entwine, 
Deem  it  not  all  a  too  presumptuous  folly 

This  spray  of  Western  pine." 

"Little  Nell"  from  "The  Old  Curiosity  Shop." 

Little  Nell  lived  with  her  grandfather  in  an 
old  house  where  he  kept  a  great  many  curious 
things  to  sell.  The  child  was  sweet  and  gentle, 
and  her  grandfather  loved  her  so  dearly  that  his 
great  desire  was  to  make  more  money  so  that 
some  time  she  might  be  rich.  It  became  almost 
a  mania  with  him;  but  he  fell  into  the  hands  of 
a  wicked  man,  an  ugly  dwarf,  named  Quilp,  who 
ruined  him,  even  driving  them  out  of  their  little 
home.  Nell  was  glad  to  go,  for  she  had  such  a 
dread  of  Quilp.  She  said  to  her  grandfather, 
"Let  us  be  gone  from  this  place,  and  never  turn 
back  or  think  of  it  again.  Let  us  wander  bare- 
foot through  the  world  rather  than  linger  here." 
"We  will,"  answered  the  old  man.  "We  will 
travel  afoot  through  the  fields  and  woods,  and  by 
the  side  of  rivers,  and  trust  ourselves  to  God  in 
the  places  where  He  dwells.  It  is  far  better  to 
lie  down  at  night  beneath  an  open  sky,  than  to 
rest  in  close  rooms  which  are  always  full  of  care 
and  weary  dreams.     Thou  and  I,  together,  Nell, 


108  TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS. 

may  be  cheerful  and  happy  yet,  and  learn  to 
forget  this  time  as  if  it  had  never  been." 

The  child's  heart  beat  high  with  hope  and 
confidence.  She  had  no  thought  of  hunger,  or 
cold,  or  thirst,  or  suffering.  Sun  and  stream, 
and  meadow  and  summer  days  shone  brightly  in 
her  view,  and  there  was  no  dark  tint  in  all  the 
sparkling  picture. 

And  so  they  wandered  out  into  the  world. 
Weary  and  foot-sore  often  as  they  stopped  to  rest 
at  cottages  by  the  road-side,  and  often  getting 
rides  in  farm- wagons,  as  Nelly's  beautiful  face 
and  gentle  manner  made  everyone  feel  kindly 
toward  her.  The  old  grandfather  was  so  broken 
down  by  his  losses  and  trouble,  he  didn't  realize 
how  weak  and  tired  the  little  girl  felt  many 
times,  and  she  was  always  brave  and  loving, 
yielding  to  his  wishes  to  go  further  on  each  day. 

Sometimes  a  traveling  show  would  pass  them 
on  the  way  and  brighten  Nelly's  life  a  little  by 
their  gay  company,  and  she  would  help  the  peo- 
ple to  mend  their  clothes.  Always  helpful,  al- 
ways loving.     Poor  little  Nell! 

After  months  of  this  weary  life,  they  at  last 
found  a  home  with  an  old  school-master,  who  had 
lost  his  dearest  friend,  a  little  boy,  his  favorite 
scholar.     While  his  life  was  empty  of  love  and 


TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS.  109 

joy,  Nell  and  her  grandfather  came  to  his  door, 
and  he  begged  them  to  stay  with  him.  Here 
they  found  peace  and  rest,  but  poor  Nell  was  so 
worn  out  by  their  long  tramps,  she  faded  away 
each  day,  like  a  tender  blossom,  so  quietly  and 
gently,  the  two  old  men,  the  school-master  and 
her  grandfather,  failed  to  notice  it,  and  to  them 
it  was  a  terrible  blow  when  the  dear  girl  slept 
her  little  life  away. 

All  the  sunshine  went  out  of  their  home  when 
they  laid  her  in  the  little  church-yard.  One 
evening  the  old  grandfather  wandered  out  by 
himself,  as  if  to  look  for  the  child,  and  they 
found  him  quietly  sleeping  on  her  grave.  His 
life  had  gone  out  to  join  her  spirit,  and  for 
him  there  was  no  more  sorrow,  for  he  had  found 
his  little  Nell. 

"Some  day,  little  ones,  you'll  be  children  no  longer, 

But  what  you  are  now  will  ever  be  part 
Of  what  you  shall  be;  and  stronger  and  stronger 

The  seed  of  the  future  still  grows  in  each  heart. 

Then  fill  your  young  lives  full  of  sunshine  and  beauty, 
Think  purely,  speak  kindly,  act  nobly  each  day, 

With  glad,  willing  hearts  do  each  little  duty 

That,  when  childhood  is  gone,  its  sweetness  may  stay. ' ' 

"Do  all  the  good  you  can, 
In  all  the  ways  you  can, 


liO  TAI^KS    ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

To  all  the  people  you  can, 
In  every  place  you  can, 
At  all  the  times  you  can, 
As  long  as  ever  you  can." 

"Boys,  do  all  the  good  you  can,  and  don't  make  any 
fuss  about  it. ' ' 

— Charles  Dickens. 

Little  Pip,  in  "Great  Expectations." 

Poor  little  Pip  had.  no  father  or  mother,  and 
was  "brought  up  by  hand,"  as  his  sister  said. 
This  sister  was  very  cross  to  him,  and  he  used 
to  wander  off  by  himself  outside  the  lonely  vil- 
lage where  he  lived. 

One  bleak,  dreary  afternoon  he  was  sitting  in 
the  old  church-yard,  looking  at  the  tomb-stones. 
He  felt  so  forlorn,  and  everything  looked  so 
gloomy  that  he  began  to  cry,  when,  all  at  once, 
a  fearful-looking  man  stood  before  him,  and  cried 
out,  "Keep  still,  or  I'll  cut  your  throat !" 

Of  course  Pip  was  badly  scared  when  he  looked 
up  and  saw  this  man  all  covered  with  mud  and 
with  a  rag  tied  around  his  head,  and  a  great  iron 
on  his  leg. 

"Tell  us  your  name,''  said  the  man. 

"Pip,  sir,"  whispered  the  boy. 

"Show  us  where  you  live."  Pip  pointed  out 
the  houses  of  the  village  almost  a  mile  away. 


TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 


Ill 


Then  after  asking  him  a  number  of  questions 
and  finding  out  that  he  lived  with  Joe  Gargery, 
the  blacksmith,  the  man  ordered  him  to  go  home 
and  bring  him  back  a  file  and  something  to  eat, 
telling  him  if  he  didn't  come  back  he  would  kill 
him,  sure. 


DICKENS'    HOME. 

Pip  ran  home  as  fast  as  he  could,  Joe,  his 
sister's  husband,  met  him  with  the  news  that  his 
sister  had  been  out  looking  for  him  about  a  dozen 
times.  "Yes,  Pip,  and  what's  worse  she's  got 
Tickler  with  her,"  said  Joe.  Tickler  was  a  wax- 
ended  piece  of  cane,  worn  smooth  by  constant 
contact  with  Pip's  little  frame.      "Has   she  been 


112  TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS. 

gone  long,  Joe?"  asked  Pip.  "Well,  said  Joe,  I 
guess  she's  been  on  the  rampage  this  last  spell, 
about  fifteen  minutes,  Pip.  She's  a-coming  now, 
get  behind  the  door,  old  chap,  and  have  the  Jack- 
towel  betwixt  you." 

"Where  have  you  been,  you  young  monkey?" 
cried  Mrs.  Joe,  as  she  applied  old  Tickler  very 
hard  to  Pip's  legs. 

"I've  only  been  to  the  churchyard,"  whimpered 
Pip,  thinking  it  was  pretty  hard  to  get  such  a 
whipping  after  being  so  scared  by  that  fearful 
man. 

That  night,  while  Mrs.  Joe  cut  the  bread  for 
supper,  Pip  was  wondering  how  he  could  smuggle 
some  of  it  in  his  pockets  for  the  poor  man  down 
in  the  graveyard.  While  he  was  thinking  of 
this  he  heard  shots  fired  in  the  distance,  and  Joe 
told  him  they  came  from  "The  Hulks,"  a  prison 
ship  away  across  the  marshes,  and  the  shots  were 
fired  because  one  of  the  convicts  had  escaped. 
Then  Pip  knew  that  the  man  who  had  made  him 
promise  to  get  the  file  and  the  food,  was  an 
escaped  prisoner.  He  went  to  bed  and  dreamed 
of  terrible  prisons,  and  that  he  was  a  thief  him- 
self, until  the  grey  morning  came.  Then  he  knew 
he  must  get  up  and  take  the  food  from  the 
pantry  before  Mrs.  Joe  could  stop  him.     He  stole 


TAI,KS   ABOUT    AUTHORS.  113 

out  of  the  house  very  quietly  with  some  bread 
and  cheese,  a  pork  pie  and  the  file. 

Away  down  in  the  meadows,  back  of  the  grave- 
yard, he  found  the  old  convict,  who  seemed  to  be 
very  thankful  that  Pip  had  kept  his  promise. 
He  devoured  his  food  like  a  hungry  animal.  Pip 
was  afraid  he  would  eat  him,  too,  he  seemed  so 
wild.  Before  Pip  left  him  he  was  filing  away  at 
the  iron  on  his  leg,  swearing  so  hard  that  Pip 
ran  home  even  faster  than  he  had  the  night 
before. 

That  day  was  Christmas  day  and  Pip  knew 
the  pork  pie  would  be  missed  at  dinner  time,  for 
there  was  company  invited  to  help  eat  it.  Dinner 
time  came  and  still  Pip's  visit  to  the  convict  had 
not  been  discovered.  Mrs.  Joe  was  praising 
her  own  good  cooking,  especially  the  fine  pork 
pie  they  were  to  have.  Pip  trembled,  for  he 
knew  he  would  get  a  double  dose  of  "Tickler"  if 
his  sister  should  find  out  that  he  had  taken  the 
pie,  even  to  give  it  to  a  starving  man. 

Just  as  she  was  going  to  the  kitchen  to  get  it, 
and  Pip  was  in  perfect  terror  of  her  return,  a 
band  of  soldiers  came  rushing  in,  holding  out  a 
pair  of  hand-cuffs  which  Pip  thought  must  surely 
be  for  him,  but  they  had  come  to  have  them 
mended   by   Joe,    and  they  told  the  astonished 


114  TALrKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

dinner-party  all  about  the  escaped  convict.  They 
knew  he  must  be  out  on  the  marshes,  and  they 
expected  to  hunt  him  down,  and  close  in  upon 
him  about  dusk. 

Pip  felt  sorry  for  the  poor  man  and  kept 
very  quiet  for  fear  the  soldiers  might  ask  him  if 
he  had  seen  the  man.  When  the  hand-cuffs  were 
mended,  all  the  men  started  off  with  the  soldiers 
to  help  in  the  hunt  for  the  convict.  Of  course 
Pip  went  along,  too,  and  was  with  them  when 
they  came  upon  the  miserable  man  out  on  the 
marshes.  He  looked  kindly  at  Pip,  and,  some- 
how, the  boy  didn't  feel  afraid,  after  that,  when 
he  thought  of  him. 

Pip  worked  away  at  the  village  school,  kept  by 
a  nice  girl  named  Betty,  until  he  became  an  ap- 
prentice boy  to  Joe,  expecting  to  be  a  blacksmith, 
too,  until  one  day  word  came  to  them  that  Pip 
had  a  great  fortune  waiting  for  him  when  he 
grew  up,  and  that  he  must  go  to  London  to  be 
educated  and  live  like  a  fine  gentleman.  No  one 
knew  where  the  money  came  from,  but  Joe  and 
Pip  thought  it  must  be  from  an  old  lady  who 
lived  in  the  neighborhood,  who  had  been  kind  to 
Pip,  and  who  was  very  rich. 

Years  after,  when  Pip  had  grown  to  be  a  man, 
he  learned  that  the  money  had  all  come  to  him 


TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS.  115 

from  the  old  convict,  who,  after  escaping  to  Aus- 
tralia, had  made  a  large  fortune,  and  all  the 
years  of  Pip's  boyhood  and  youth  had  been 
sending  him  money  for  his  education,  that 
he  might  live  like  a  rich  man's  son.  He  did  all 
this  for  Pip,  because  he  remembered  the  little 
boy  who  had  helped  him  in  his  trouble  so  long 
before. 

Dickens  wrote  a  large  book  about  Pip's  life, 
and  you  will  all  like  to  read  about  his  "Great 
Expectations." 


HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE. 


HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE, 

AND  "uncle  TOM'S  cabin." 

Born,  June  14,  1812;  Died,  1896. 

It  seems  strange  to  think  that  ahnost  a  cen- 
tury has  passed  since  the  little  girl  was  born 
who  grew  up  to  write  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin." 

Just  eighty-seven  years  have  passed  since  the 
curly-haired  girl  Harriet  Beecher,  was  born  into 
the  large  family  of  the  Reverend  Lyman  Beecher, 
then  a  poor  preacher  living  in  the  town  of  Little- 
field,  Connecticut.  The  girl's  mother  had  a  sweet, 
gentle  spirit  which  was  never  forgotten  by  the 
children,  although  she  died  while  they  were 
all  young. 

Harriet  remembered  her  mother's  great  love 
for  flowers,  and  especially  one  thing  that  hap- 
pened. Her  brother  in  New  York  had  sent  the 
little  girl's  mother  some  fine  tulip  bulbs,  which 
were  very  precious  in  those  days,  especially  to 
one  who  loved  flowers  as  Mrs.  Beecher  did. 
Little  Harriet  found  them  hidden  away  in  the 
nursery,  and  thinking  that  they  were  onions, 
she  persuaded  her  brothers  and  sisters  that  they 
were  good  to  eat.  So  they  all  sat  down  in  a  cor- 
ner of  the  nursery  and  ate  every  one  of  them. 

(117) 


118  TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

When  their  mother  came  they  all  ran  to  her 
telling  her  what  they  had  done.  Instead  of  scold- 
ing them  she  sat  down  by  them  and  said  in  her 
quiet  voice,  ''My  dear  children,  what  you  have 
done  makes  mamma  very  sorry.  Those  were  not 
onions,  but  beautiful  flowers,  and  if  you  had  not 
eaten  them,  we  should  have  had  next  summer 
in  the  garden  great  beautiful  red  and  yellow 
flowers  such  as  you  never  saw."  Harriet  always 
remembered  how  depressed  they  all  felt  after 
finding  out  what  a  mistake  they  had  made. 

When  Harriet  was  about  five  years  old  she 
used  to  trudge  to  school  every  day  with  her 
chubby  bare-footed  brother  Henry,  who  was  then 
about  four  years  old,  and  who  grew  up  to  be  one 
of  the  greatest  preachers  we  ever  had  in  this 
country,  Henry  Ward  Beecher  of  Plymouth 
Church,  Brooklyn.  As  the  children  trudged 
along  they  did  not  think  much  about  growing  up 
to  be  great,  but  they  were  glad  to  learn  to  read. 

When  Harriet  was  six  years  old,  she  began 
to  search  for  books  to  read  in  the  barrels  which 
were  full  of  her  father's  old  sermons  and  paper 
covered  books  that  were  stored  away  in  the  gar- 
ret. 

Eighty  years  ago  there  were  very  few  books 
written     for    children,   and    you     can    imagine 


TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS.  119 

Harriet's  joy  when  at  last  she  found  away  down 
at  the  bottom  of  a  barrel  of  sermons,  an  old  copy 
of  "The  Arabian  Nights."  This  book  opened  a 
new  world  to  her,  a  fairy-land,  where  she  could 
fly  whenever  she  was  in  trouble.  If  her  brothers 
teazed  her,  all  she  had  to  do  for  comfort  was  to 
curl  up  in  some  corner  with  her  precious  book, 
and  in  a  moment  she  had  sailed  away  to  fairyland. 

She  loved  to  sit  in  her  father's  study  and  watch 
him  as  he  wrote  his  sermons.  She  thought  he 
must  be  a  wonderful  man  to  read  and  understand 
all  the  old  books  around  the  walls. 

About  this  time  the  little  girl  was  very  lonely, 
as  her  own  dear  mother  had  died  while  her 
brother  Henry  was  almost  a  baby.  After  a  year 
or  so,  their  father  brought  home  a  new,  young 
mother,  whom  they  soon  loved  very  much,  al- 
though they  never  forgot  their  own  mother  who 
had  loved  them.  The  memory  of  her  kindly  voice 
and  tender  patience  helped  them  all  through 
their  lives.  The  new  mother  was  pleased  with 
the  bright  little  Beecher  children  and  loved  them, 
and  took  good  care  of  them.  Before  many  years 
had  passed  she  gave  them  new  brothers  and 
sisters,  and  they  lived  a  happy,  hearty,  child-life. 

The  girls  had  as  good  times  as  the  boys,  tramp- 
ing through    the  woods    with  them,  and  going 


120  TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS. 

fishing.  The  only  trouble  was  that,  once  in  a 
while,  they  had  to  sew  patch-work  and  seams, 
and  knit  stockings  and  mittens,  but  Harriet 
didn't  mind  that  very  much. 

When  she  was  about  twelve  years  old,  she  had 
a  very  good  teacher  of  composition,  and  at  the 
school  exhibition,  which,  in  those  days,  was  a 
grand  affair,  Harriet's  composition  was  chosen, 
as  one  of  the  three  best,  to  be  read  at  the  exhi- 
bition. The  subject  was  "Can  the  Immortality 
of  the  Soul  be  Proved  by  the  Light  of  Nature  ?" 
Was  not  that  a  large  subject  for  such  a  little 
girl? 

Her  father,  who  was  sitting  on  the  platform 
by  the  side  of  Mr.  Brace,  the  teacher,  began  to 
look  interested  while  this  fine  essay  was  being 
read,  and  he  asked,  "Who  wrote  that  composi- 
tion?" When  Mr.  Brace  answered,  "Your  daugh- 
ter, sir,"  he  was  quite  astonished. 

When  Harriet  saw  how  pleased  her  father  was, 
she  felt  very  happy.  She  often  said,  "It  was  the 
proudest  moment  of  my  life."  This  talent  grew 
all  her  life.  Under  all  circumstances,  some  of 
the  hardest  a  woman  ever  had  to  bear,  she  could 
always  write  stories. 

When  we  read  of  her  writing  stories  to  earn  a 
little  extra  money,  when  they  were  so  poor,  and 


TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS.  121 

her  cares  were  so  many,  we  think  of  the  little 
girl  who  sat  in  the  corner  of  the  library  to  dream 
away  her  troubles  over  the  beautiful  "Arabian 
Nights." 

Many  times  after  her  marriage  to  Prof.  Stowe, 
when  she  had  little  children  of  her  own,  and  not 
much  money  to  pay  the  house-keeping  bills,  she 
would  say  to  her  faithful  friend  and  governess, 
"Now,  Anna,  if  you  will  keep  the  babies,  and  at- 
tend to  things  for  one  day,  I'll  write  a  piece,  and 
then  we  shall  be  out  of  the  scrape."  And  so  she 
wrote  her  "pieces"  and  stories,  and  everyone 
wished  she  had  more  time  to  write,  for  they 
were  all  eager  to  read  all  that  could  be  written 
by  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe. 

When  she  was  nearly  forty  years  old,  and  her 
heart  was  very  sad  over  the  death  of  her  little 
baby,  Charley — when  she  was  grieving  for  the 
loss  of  his  sweet  little  face  and  tender  warm 
hands  around  her  neck,  she  used  to  think,  "How 
terrible  it  is  for  the  poor  slave  mothers  to  have 
their  own  little  ones  torn  from  them  and  sold, 
not  knowing  where  they  are  or  who  will  care  for 
them."  As  she  thought  about  the  terrible 
wrongs  of  slavery,  of  how  mothers  and  fathers 
were  separated  forever  from  their  children, 
brothers  sold  from  sisters,  slaves  beaten  to  death 


122  TALKS   ABOUT  AUTHORS. 

for  running  away,  all  these  sad,  cruel  things 
roused  her  to  do  something  to  hasten  the  time 
when  every  man,  woman  and  child  in  the  United 
States  should  be  free. 

Her  sister  wrote  to  her  from  Boston:  "Now, 
Hattie,  if  I  could  use  a  pen  as  you  can,  I  would 
write  something  that  would  make  this  whole 
nation  feel  what  an  accursed  thing  slavery  is." 

When  Mrs.  Stowe  read  this,  she  rose  from 
her  chair,  saying:  "I  will  write  something.  I 
will,  if  I  live." 

In  February,  1857,  she  was  sitting  in  the  col- 
lege church  at  Brunswick,  when  suddenly  and 
clearly,  like  the  unrolling  of  a  picture,  the  vision 
of  the  death  of  Uncle  Tom  came  to  her,  and  it 
affected  her  so  she  could  scarcely  keep  from  cry- 
ing. She  wrote  out  the  vision  as  soon  as  she 
reached  home,  and  read  it  to  her  children.  Two 
of  them,  ten  and  twelve  years  old,  began  to  sob 
and  cry,  one  of  them  saying:  "Oh,  mamma, 
slavery  is  the  most  cruel  thing  in  the 
world." 

Twenty-five  years  after  Mrs.  Stowe  wrote  to 
one  of  her  children:  "I  well  remember  the  win- 
ter you  were  a  baby,  and  I  was  writing  'Uncle 
Tom's  Cabin.'  I  remember  many  a  night  weep- 
ing over  you  as  you  lay  sleeping  beside  me,  and 


TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS.  123 

I  thought  of  the  slave  mothers  whose  babies 
were  torn  from  them." 

Uncle  Tom's  story  was  first  written  for  a  mag- 
azine, called  "The  National  Era,"  as  a  serial 
story.  Whittier  was  one  of  the  editors.  Every 
copy  was  eagerly  bought,  and  the  story  attracted 
world-wide  attention. 

Just  as  soon  as  it  was  finished,  a  publisher 
wanted  it  immediately  to  make  it  into  a  book, 
and  the  first  day  the  book  was  published,  three 
thousand  copies  were  sold,  and  the  first  year 
three  hundred  thousand  copies.  Almost  in  one 
day,  the  poor  struggling  wife  and  mother  had 
become  the  best  known  woman  in  the  world,  and 
no  longer  would  she  have  to  fight  the  battle  of 
poverty,  for  in  doing  the  earnest  work  of  her 
heart  to  free  the  black  man  from  slavery,  she 
had  freed  her  own  life  also,  from  the  slavery  of 
poverty.  To  this  day,  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin"  has 
been  one  of  the  best  selling  books  in  our  coun- 
try, and  it  has  been  translated  into  almost  every 
language.  Only  the  other  day  a  notice  of  a  trans- 
lation of  it  into  Welsh  was  seen  in  a  new  book 
catalogue. 

When  the  story  was  finished  in  the  magazine, 
Mrs.  Stowe  wrote  to  the  children  who  had  read 
her  story,  this  message: 


124  TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS. 

"Dear  children:  You  will  soon  be  men  and 
women,  and  I  hope  that  you  will  learn  from  this 
story  always  to  remember  and  pity  the  poor  and 
oppressed.  When  you  grow  up,  show  your  pity 
by  doing  all  you  can  for  them;  never,  if  you  can 
help  it,  let  a  colored  child  be  shut  out  from 
school,  or  treated  with  neglect  or  contempt,  on 
account  of  his  color.  Remember  the  sweet  ex- 
ample of  Eva,  and  try  to  feel  the  same  regard 
for  all  that  she  did.  Then  when  you  grow  up, 
I  hope  the  foolish  and  unchristian  prejudice 
against  people,  merely  on  account  of  their  color, 
will  be  done  away  with.^' 

Mrs.  Stovve  wrote  other  books  about  slavery 
after  this.  "Dred,"  or  "The  Tale  of  the  Dismal 
Swamp''  is  a  tale  of  the  suffering  of  the  runa- 
way slaves  in  the  wilderness,  and  Dred  himself 
was  a  noble  character,  much  like  "Aaron  The 
Runaway,"  written  about  long  years  afterward, 
by  Joel  Chandler  Harris. 

Other  books  following  these  were  of  more 
happy  lives  and  of  more  peaceful  times.  But 
Mrs.  Stowe's  name  had  become  known  in  all 
countries,  by  "Uncle  Tom's  Story,"  and  she 
received  letters  from  the  great  men  and  women 
of  all  lands,  and  when  she  went  to  Europe  later 
in  her  life,  her  journey  was  like  that  of  a  queen 


TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORG.  125 

entering  lier  kingdom,  for  every  one  wanted  to 

do  honor  to  tlie  woman  who  had   written  that 

wonderful  story  of  human  slavery.      And  in  all 

future  days,  when  men  and  women  are  working 

to  free  others  from  other  forms  of  slavery,  they 

will  find  inspiration    to   more  earnest  effort  by 

reading  about   Mrs.  vStowe's   life   and   work  for 

humanity. 

"O  soon  may  we  see  the  dawn  of  that  day, 

When  the  idols  of  glory  and  greed  shall  be  shattered, 
And  peace  shed  her  pure  and  beneficent  ray, 

When    the    storm-clouds    of    war  have  forever   been 
scattered. 
And   the   blood   tarnished    blade  to   a    plough-share    be 

made, 
And  the  bayonet's  gleam  into  red  rust  shall  fade, 
And  the  cannon  be  dumb,  and  the  battle  flags  furled, 
And  freedom  and  plenty  be  shared  by  the  world." 


CHARLES  KINGSLEY. 

Born  Juue  12,  1819;  Died  1875- 

All  children  who  have  read  "Water  Babies" 
and  "Greek  Heroes''  love  this  name,  and  would 
like  to  know  more  about  the  man  who  loved 
children  so  much,  that  he  would  leave  for  a  time 
his  duties  as  a  great  preacher,  to  v/rite  beautiful 
stories  for  them.  He  was  such  a  bright  child 
that  every  one  thought  he  would  grow  up  to  be 
an  uncommon  man.  His  great  delight  when 
only  four  years  old  was  to  make  a  little  pulpit  in 
the  nursery,  and  using  his  apron  for  a  gown  he 
would  preach  real  sermons. 

His  mother  wrote  some  of  them  down  and 
showed  them  to  a  great  Bishop,  who  thought 
they  were  remarkable. 

Here  is  a  part  of  a  poem  he  wrote  when  about 
five  years  old: 

"Morning." 
"Everybody  is  rising, 
Boys  and  girls  go  to  school, 
Everybody  is  at  work. 
Everybody  is  busy. 

The  bee  wakes  from  her  sleep  to  gather  honey, 
But  the  drone  and  the  queen-bee  lie  still  in  the  hive, 
And  the  bee  guards  them. 
Be  bu.sy  when  thou  canst." 

(126) 


TALKS    ABOUT   AUTHORS.  127 

All  the  surroundings  of  his  early  life  were  like 
seeds  planted  in  his  mind,  for  in  the  books  he 
wrote  afterward  we  see  the  fruit  grown  ripe  and 
beautiful.  His  book  "Hereward  the  Wake" 
shows  this  most  clearly. 

He  wandered  around  the  Fens,  where  wild 
ducks  were  found  before  the  Great  Fen  or 
Swamp  was  drained,  and  he  found  many  speci- 
mens of  rare  and  beautiful  butter-flies,  to  add  to 
his  collection,  for  beside  his  writing,  while  still  a 
very  small  boy,  he  was  a  naturalist  too. 

When  his  father  moved  away  from  the  Fens 
to  Clovelly,  he  found  a  new  world.  Instead  of 
the  sturdy  countrymen  he  met  sailors  and  fisher- 
men, and  there  was  a  great  contrast  between  the 
flat  scenery  he  had  left  and  the  rocky  sea-coast 
of  Clovelly,  in  Devonshire. 

Charles  and  his  brothers  began  to  study  about 
the  sea-shells  with  a  doctor  who  lived  in  the 
neighborhood.  They  had  great  pleasure  too, 
with  a  pony  and  a  boat  their  father  bought  for 
them.  Both  their  father  and  mother  shared  in 
the  boys'  eager  delight  in  their  new  surroundings. 
Their  father  could  steer  a  boat,  "shoot  a  herring 
net''  and  haul  a  seine  as  well  as  one  of  the 
fishermen. 

When  the  herring  fleet  put  out  to  sea  the  whole 


128  TALKS    ABOUT    AUTHORS. 

family  would  go  down  to  the  Quay,  as  they  called 
the  wharf  where  the  fishing  boats  landed,  to  see 
the  fishermen  start,  and  the  father  would  hold  a 
short  "parting  service,"  the  men  and  women  all 
joining  in  singing  a  Psalm.  The  memory  of 
these  times  was  in  his  mind  when  he  wrote  "The 
Song  of  the  Three  Fishers." 

As  he  grew  older,  Charles'  father  sent  him  to 
the  town  of  Clifton  to  school,  and  it  was  while 
living  there  that  he  saw  the  Bristol  Riots. 
Those  terrible  scenes  seemed  to  change  him  from 
a  timid  boy  to  a  man  full  of  sympathy  and  cour- 
age. 

When  the  Reform  Bill  had  been  thrown  out 
by  the  House  of  Lords,  one  of  the  Tories,  Sir 
Charles  Wetherell,  entered  the  town  in  triumph 
with  an  escort  of  men  finely  dressed.  This  so 
angered  the  people  that  a  great  mob  rose  in  re- 
bellion and  over  a  hundred  persons  were  killed. 
The  bishop's  palace,  the  excise  office,  the  prisons 
and  many  other  houses  were  burned  down,  the 
loss  being  over  half  a  million  pounds.  This  was 
the  Bristol  Riot  and  Charles  Kingsley  never  for- 
got it. 

When  he  became  a  preacher,  like  his  father,  he 
was  always  doing  kindly  deeds  for  the  sick  and 
poor.     With  all  his  study  and  his  busy  days  as 


TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS.  129 

a  minister  he  found  time  to  write  many  books. 
The  one  we  all  love  so  well,  "Greek  Heroes,"  is 
dedicated  to  his  children.  "To  my  children 
Rose,  Alaurice  and  Mary,  a  little  present  of  Old 
Greek  Fairy  Tales."  You  will  find  these  words 
written  on  the  fly  leaf,  and  in  the  Preface,  "Now 
why  have  I  called  this  book  'The  Heroes '  ?  "  Be- 
cause that  was  the  name  which  the  Hellens  (or 
Greeks)  gave  to  men  who  were  brave  and  skill- 
ful, and  dare  do  more  than  other  men. 

At  first  I  think  that  was  all  it  meant,  but  after 
a  time  it  came  to  mean  something  more.  It  came 
to  mean,  men  who  helped  their  country,  men  in 
those  old  times  when  the  country  was  half  wild 
who  killed  fierce  beasts  and  evil  men,  and  drained 
swamps  and  founded  towns,  and  therefore  after 
they  were  dead  were  honored  because  they  had 
left  their  country  better  than  they  had  found  it. 
And  we  call  such  a  man  a  hero  in  English  to 
this  day,  and  call  it  a  heroic  thing  to  suffer  pain 
and  grief  that  we  may  do  good  to  our  fellowmen. 
We  may  all  do  that,  my  children,  boys  and  girls 
alike,  and  we  ought  to  do  it  for  it  is  easier  now 
than  ever,  and  safer,  the  path  more  clear.  But 
you  shall  hear  how  the  Hellens  said  their  heroes 
worked  three  thousand  years  ago.  The  stories 
are  not  all  true,  of  course,  but  the  meaning  of 


130  TALKS    ABOUT   AUTHORvS. 

them  is  true,  and  true  forever,  and  that  is — "Do 
right  and  God  will  help  you. " 

And  all  these  Greek  Fairy  Stories  as  Charles 
Kingsley  tells  them  to  ns,  take  on  new  meaning. 

In  the  story  of  his  life  written  by  his  wife  we 
find  how  "Water  Babies"  was  written.  He  was 
reminded  one  morning  of  a  promise  he  had  made, 
"Rose,  Maurice  and  Mary  have  got  their  book, 
and  baby  must  have  his."  Mr.  Kingsley  made 
no  answer  but  walked  to  his  study  and  locked 
himself  in.  In  half  an  hour  he  returned  with 
the  "Story  of  Little  Tom,"  the  first  chapter  of 
"Water  Babies.''  All  the  other  chapters  were 
written  as  easily,  and  he  vv^as  much  surprised  at 
the  sensation  made  by  the  book. 

He  often  spent  whole  days  in  the  silence  and 
solitude  of  the  river  banks,  sitting  quietly  for 
hours  fishing  in  the  river,  and  again  walking 
alone  by  the  sea.  The  pages  of  "Water  Babies" 
seem  filled  with  the  freshness  of  the  river-side 
and  the  splash  of  the  sea. 

When  this  kindly  heart,  which  so  loved  chil- 
dren was  still,  and  his  body  was  laid  to  rest  in 
Eversley,  little  children  who  loved  the  "Water 
Babies"  and  "The  Heroes"  would  kneel  on  his 
grave  and  look  at  the  beautiful  flowers  placed 
there   by   loving   hands,  and   the  gypsies    never 


TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS.  131 

passed  by  the  gate  without  turning  in  to  stand 
by  the  grave,  sometimes  scattering  wild  flowers 
over  it,  saying,  "He  went  to  heaven  on  the  pray- 
ers of  the  gypsies." 

But  better  than  any  monument  is  the  love 
and  memory  of  a  little  child,  and  all  over  the 
world  today,  Charles  Kingsley  lives  in  the 
hearts  of  little  children. 

A  scrap  of  verse  by  Kingsley: 

"Tho'    we  earn  our  bread,  Tom 

By  the  dirty  pen, 
What  we  can,  we  will  be, 
Honest  Englishmen. 

"Do  the  work  that's  nearest. 

Though  it's  dull  at  whiles; 
Helping  when  we  meet  them, 

Lame  dogs  over  stiles. 

"See  in  every  hedge  row, 

Marks  of  angels'  feet; 
Epics  in  each  pebble. 

Underneath  our  feet. 

"Once  a  3'ear  like  school-boys, 

Robin-hooding  go; 
Leaving  fops  and  fogies 

A  thousand  feet  below." 

'Not  a  life  so  mean  or  lowly, 

But  if  love  is  there, 
Both  ingrowing  and  outflowing. 
May  be  strong  and  fair." 


EDWARD  BGGIvESTON. 

"  THE     HOOSIER     SCHOOLMASTER." 

Born  December  10,  l.s,37. 

The  story  of  Eggleston's  early  life  is  some- 
what like  that  of  the  Hoosier  poet,  James  Whit- 
comb  Riley,  but 
the  time  of  his 
boyhood  was  earl- 
ier in  the  civiliza- 
tion of  the  West, 
and  the  pioneers 
had  a  harder  time 
of  it.  There  were 
clearings  to  make 
in  the  forest,  log 
cabins  to  build  and 
all  sorts  of  out-door 
work  to  do.  Eg- 
gleston's boyhood, 
like  that  of  W\  D. 
Howells,  was  full  of  hard  work.  Their  fathers 
were  both  educated  men,  fond  of  books,  and  often 
talked  with  their  boys  about  their  reading  and 
about  life.  Edward's  father,  educated  in  Vir- 
ginia, was  a  bright  j^oung  lawyer,  who  died  when 

(132) 


EDWARD   EGGLESTON. 


TALKS    ABOUT    AUTHORS.  133 

he  was  only  thirt}^  years  old,  while  yet  in  the 
very  beginning  of  liis  life  work,  but  Edward  re- 
membered many  things  he  had  told  him.  Full 
of  the  southern  spirit,  he  used  to  say :  "Never 
tell  a  lie,  and  whip  any  man  who  says  you  lie." 
He  also  advised  his  boy  to  keep  out  of  politics, 
for  he  was  shocked  to  find  that  even  his  friends 
did  untrue  things  to  get  their  "man"  elected. 

Edward  was  a  weak  boy  physically,  but  his 
strong  will  helped  him  to  accomplish  great 
things.  In  those  early  days,  the  sons  of  pioneers 
had  great  ambition,  especially  to  get  a  good  edu- 
cation, but  it  was  a  very  hard  thing  to  do.  The 
schoolmasters  had  to  teach  without  knowing 
very  much  themselves,  and  often  began  when 
very  young  men.  They  boarded  around  in  the 
homes  of  their  pupils,  one  week  in  each  place, 
and  received  only  a  small  salary.  The  school 
terms  were  very  short,  as  the  boys  and  girls  had 
to  help  work  out-of-doors  as  soon  as  spring 
came.  Many  of  the  young  teachers,  ignorant 
and  untrained,  had  very  little  control  over  the 
children  or  over  their  own  temper — and  the  fun- 
loving  youngsters  had  many  a  whipping. 

Eggleston  says,"  "The  long  birch  switches 
hanging  against  the  wall  haunted  nervous  chil- 
dren night  and  day."     Boys,  whose  fathers  and 


134  TALKS    ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

mothers  (like  Edward's)  had  been  well  educated, 
must  have  felt  impatient  with  some  of  the  school 
teachers,  who  could  not  even  spell  correctly. 
Edward,  himself,  hardly  spent  two  years  in  a 
schoolroom,  as  he  had  to  work  on  a  farm  and  in 
a  country  store.  Until  he  was  ten  years  old,  be- 
cause of  his  bad  health,  he  was  thought  to  be 
dull  and  slow,  but  after  that  he  read  the  most 
advanced  books  he  could  get  hold  of,  and  thus 
educated  himself  by  his  reading,  so  that  few 
young  men  of  that  time  knew  as  much  of  litera- 
ture as  he  did. 

When  he  was  fifteen  he  entered  into  a  contest 
for  a  prize  offered  by  a  country  editor,  for  the 
best  composition  written  by  a  school-boy,  and 
although  he  was  a  clerk  in  a  store  he  was 
allowed  to  take  part  in  the  contest,  and  received 
the  prize.  When  he  was  seventeen  he  visited 
his  father's  relatives  on  a  plantation  in  Virginia. 
It  was  a  sudden  change  from  the  bare,  hard  life 
of  the  west  to  the  lazy,  comfortable  life  of  a 
southern  planter.  One  of  his  relatives  wanted 
to  adopt  him,  and  keep  him  there,  but  Edward 
wanted  to  go  back  to  his  old  life  in  the  west.  At 
this  time  he  had  to  go  still  farther  west,  to 
Minnesota,  as  they  all  feared  he  would  die  with 
consumption.     He  determined  to  save  his  life  by 


TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS.  135 

doing  out-of-doors  work,  so  he  felled  trees,  drove 
oxen  and  lived  in  the  open  air  continually.  His 
fight  with  the  cough  and  fever  was  successful, 
and  he  soon  began  to  recover.  He  then  walked 
all  the  way  from  Minnesota  to  Kansas,  over  two 
hundred  miles,  sleeping  in  cabins,  log  houses, 
country  taverns  and  sometimes  in  the  open  air. 
When  he  reached  Kansas  he  started  to  walk 
home,  but  his  strength  and  money  giving  out, 
he  had  to  be  helped  by  strangers  on  the  road. 
When  he  reached  home  he  looked  so  tattered 
and  torn  the  home  folks  did  not  know  him  at 
first,  thinking  he  was  a  tramp.  He  longed  to 
go  to  college  but  knew  that  his  health  would 
break  down  again  if  he  should,  so  he  became  a 
Methodist  minister  or  circuit  rider.  He  had 
read  a  great  many  religious  books,  and  knew  the 
good  young  men  who  had  come  to  his  home 
many  times  as  circuit  riders,  and  it  seemed  to 
him  a  noble  life.  In  those  days  the  people  lived 
so  far  from  each  other  they  could  not  afford  to 
build  churches,  and  a  minister  would  have  a 
circuit  of  a  great  many  miles  as  his  parish  or 
district.  He  would  hold  services  at  school  houses 
and  often  at  the  homes  of  his  people.  The 
farmers  and  their  families  were  always  glad  to 
see  them  ride  up  to  the  house.     They  had  a  good 


136  TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

influence  on  the  young  people  and  Edward  had 
been  so  helped  by  them  he  thought  it  would  bj 
the  best  life  for  him  to  live.  The  Methodists 
thought  it  very  wrong  to  read  novels,  so  Edward 
tried  hard  to  keep  this  rule,  and  it  seems  strange 
that  the  strict  Methodist  circuit  rider  should 
later  in  life  write  novels  himself.  One  of  his 
best  known  books  is  called  "The  Circuit  Rider,'' 
and  it  gives  much  true  experience.  In  his  first 
circuit  he  had  over  ten  places  to  visit.  He  spent 
much  time  on  horseback  and  studied  as  he  rode 
along.  In  this  life  he  had  great  opportunities  to 
study  all  kinds  of  characters  and  in  his  books 
we  have  true  pictures  of  country  life,  and  of 
camp  meetings  in  the  summer  time  when  relig- 
ious excitement  was  almost  as  high  as  in  the 
revival  meetings  held  in  the  little  school  houses 
on  winter  evenings. 

The  fun  of  these  days  was  not  made  entirely 
by  the  young  folks,  for  young  and  old  gathered 
in  the  barns  to  husk  the  corn  in  the  fall,  when 
the  grain  was  stored  away  for  the  winter.  As 
each  farmer  cut  his  corn  he  would  invite  the 
neighbors  to  meet  in  his  barn  on  a  certain  even- 
ing to  a  "husking  bee."  They  came  early  in 
the  evening  ready  for  a  frolic  and  ready  for 
work.     They  had  contests  to  see  how  fast  they 


TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS.  137 

could  husk  the  ears  of  corn,  aud  after  the  husks 
were  cleared  away  they  would  have  a  dance  or 
play  old-fashioned  games.  The  poet  Whittier 
describes  these  husking  parties  in  his  poems  of 
New  England  country  life,  so  it  must  have  been 
a  custom  carried  by  the  people  of  the  east  to  their 
new  homes  in  the  west. 

Another  favorite  social  excitement  was  the 
"quilting  bee."  Some  farmer's  wife  would  want 
to  quilt  two  or  three  large  "comfortables"  for  the 
winter;  so  she  would  get  the  old  quilting  frames 
down  from  the  garret,  and  have  ready  plenty  of 
cotton,  thread  and  needles,  and  then  she  w^ould 
invite  all  of  the  women  known  to  be  good  quilt- 
ers,  to  spend  the  afternoon  with  her.  In  the 
evening  after  the  work  was  done,  the  men  folks 
and  the  young  people  w^ould  come  to  help  eat 
the  good  supper  she  had  prepared,  and  enjoy  the 
fun.  Then,  there  were  singing  schools  and 
sleighing  parties  for  the  young  folks,  so  the  life 
of  those  days  was  not  by  any  means  dull.  All 
these  merry-makings  are  described  in  Eggles- 
ton's  books.  He  could  not  stand  the  hard  work 
of  circuit  riding  very  long,  so  he  went  off  to 
Minnesota  again  for  a  rest,  and  began  to  preach 
to  one  congregation  in  a  western  town,  where 
part    of    the    inhabitants    were    Indians.       He 


138  TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS. 

preached  so  well  that  he  began  to  be  known  and 
talked  of  in  larger  cities.  He  soon  had  a  call  to 
a  chnrcli  in  St.  Paul.  His  health  was  never 
good,  so  he  had  to  stop  work  often.  He  found 
easier  work  in  writing  for  the  religious  papers 
of  the  time.  But  the  scenes  of  his  3^oung  life, 
the  old  school-house,  the  school-boys  and  the 
master,  the  experiences  he  had  as  circuit  rider, 
were  in  his  mind  as  clear,  bright  pictures,  and 
he  began  to  give  these  pictures  to  the  world  in 
the  form  of  a  story.  "The  Hoosier  School-Mas- 
ter" made  his  name  known  at  once.  His  book 
"The  Graysons"  was,  of  course,  a  shock  to  some 
of  the  good  old  Methodists,  for  it  was  a  real 
novel.  It  is  about  a  young  student  who  was 
accused  of  murder.  Abraham  Lincoln  took  up 
his  cause  and  pleaded  for  him  so  earnestly  that 
he  was  acquitted.  It  is  evident  from  this  book, 
and  other  incidents  told  of  Bggleston,  that  he 
knew  Lincoln. 

Another  very  interesting  book  of  Eggleston's 
is  called  "The  End  of  the  World,"  and  is  a  pic- 
ture from  life  of  some  folks  who  believed  the  end 
of  the  world  was  coming  on  a  certain  day,  and 
had  their  ascension  robes  ready  and  all  their 
affairs  settled.  He  has  also  written  a  series  of 
books  for  boys   and   girls.     One   is   called  "The 


TAKKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS.  139 

School-Master's  Series;"  another  "Queer  Stories 
for  Boys  and  Girls;"  "Roxy,"  is  one  of  his  good 
stories,  and  his  histories  are  liked  because  they 
are  written  like  story  books.  His  latest  book  is 
now  in  preparation,  and  its  title  will  be  "Life  in 
the  Original  Thirteen  Colonies."  It  has  taken 
him  a  long  time  to  write  this,  and  it  will  be  a 
very  valuable  work  when  finished.  It  is  a  re- 
markable fact  that  this  man  is  still  working  on 
his  books,  although  his  whole  life  long  he  has 
been  fighting  sickness.  His  will  must  have 
been  a  very  strong  one.  In  all  stories  of  west- 
ern boys  who  have  become  great  men,  we  find 
that  they  inherited  wonderful  force  of  will  and 
patient  perseverance,  from  their  sturdy  pioneer 
fathers  and  mothers. 


Wm.  Dean  Howei.i<S. 


WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS. 


"an  OHIO  BOY." 


Born,  March  1,  1837. 

• 

In  New  York  Cit}-,  not  long  ago,  a  meeting 
was  held  in  memory  of  Edward  Bellamy,  the 
author  of  "Looking  Backward,"  Publishers, 
writers  and  poets  were  gathered  there.  Sitting  at 
the  President's  table  was  a  modest  plain-looking 
man  with  a  low  earnest  voice.  Every  one  present 
seemed  anxious  to  get  near  to  him  and  hear  his 
voice.  It  was  William  D.  Howells,  one  of  the  great- 
est American  writers.  The  list  of  books  bearing 
his  name  is  a  long  one  and  they  are  all  stories 
written  with  a  true,  good  purpose.  Like  many 
other  good  men  he  has  remembered  the  children. 
.  In  his  book  "A  Boy's  Town"  he  has  given  us  the 
story  of  his  own  boyhood  in  Ohio.  In  "My  Year 
in  a  Log  Cabin,''  he  has  told  us  of  the  happy 
days  he  had  in  a  real  log  cabin.  His  father,  a 
Welshman  and  a  Quaker,  had  given  up  the  news- 
paper business  in  an  Ohio  city  to  take  charge  of 
a  mill  property  belonging  to  his  brothers,  and 
before  they  could  build  a  frame  house,  the  whole 
family  had  to  live  in  this  log-cabin  for  a  year. 

It  was  pretty  hard  for  their  mother  but  the 

(141) 


142  TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS. 

boys  thought  it  was  one  long  picnic.  The  father 
bought  a  barrel  of  old  newspapers  and  papered 
the  walls  with  them.  At  night  they  slept  on 
mattresses  laid  on  the  sweet,  new,  oak  plank 
floor.  This  made  a  pretty  hard  bed,  but  hearty- 
growing  boys  didn't  mind  that.  Kven  in  the 
log-cabin  the  book-loving  father  had  his  books 
in  shelves  on  the  walls,  and  barrels  of  unbound 
books.  Their  father  had  a  happy  way  of  talking 
to  his  boys  about  trees,  birds,  and  animals,  and 
here  their  love  of  nature  was  gratified. 

William  never  forgot  the  time  they  drove  the 
cow  from  the  town  to  their  country  home.  The 
father  and  the  barefoot  boy  talked  of  the  beauti- 
ful changing  leaves,  of  poems,  and  histories,  but 
the  cow  walked  very  slowly  and  when  they  had 
gone  the  twelve  miles,  it  was  night.  When  they 
came  to  the  race-way  near  the  mill,  they  hardly 
knew  what  to  do  to  get  the  cow  across  the  cold 
water.  About  this  time  the  cow  decided  to  run 
away,  and  the  next  morning  she  was  found  in 
her  old  home  in  town. 

The  winter  in  the  log  cabin  was  full  of  fun  for 
the  children.  By  the  old  crane  in  the  chimney 
where  the  cooking  was  done  on  the  hearth  they 
watched  their  mother  bake  the  bread,  in  a  skillet 
with  a  lid,  which  was  covered  with  ashes  and  hot 


TA1.KS    ABOUT   AUTHORS.  143 

coals.  The  corn-meal  was  mixed  fresh  from  the 
mill,  and  laid  on  an  oak  plank  before  the  lire  to 
bake;  this  tasted  good  in  the  cold  mornings  with 
fresh  maple  syrup.  In  the  evening  they  would 
sit  close  to  the  fire-place,  their  faces  burning  and 
backs  freezing,  and  would  read  many  stories 
to  each  other. 

It  was  during  this  winter  that  the  boy  dis- 
covered a  paper  copy  of  Longfellow's  poems  in 
one  of  the  barrels  in  the  loft,  and  the  strange 
rhythm  of  the  "Spanish  Student''  and  "The  Voices 
of  the  Night"  took  the  child's  fancy. 

It  was  during  this  life  in  the  log  cabin  that 
the  boy  William,  who  had  learned  to  set  type  in 
the  old  home,  was  sent  for  to  go  to  a  town  not 
far  off  to  take  the  place  of  one  of  the  type-setters 
in  a  printing-office.  The  home  folks  thought  it 
a  good  chance  for  him  to  earn  a  little  money,  so 
he  started  off,  but  not  in  high  glee,  for  he  was 
homesick  before  he  left  home.  His  older  brother 
took  him  to  the  town. 

All  the  time  on  the  journey  William  was 
thinking  of  the  dear  home  life  he  had  left  behind 
him,  wondering  what  his  mother  and  each  child 
was  doing.  The  editor,  to  whom  he  was  sent, 
did  not  dream  what  a  poor  little  homesick  boy 
he  was  receiving.     He  took  him  to  a  boarding- 


144  TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS. 

house,  where  the  man  who  kept  it  told  him  sup- 
per was  about  ready,  but  William  didn't  want 
any  supper. 

He  rushed  off  to  the  station  to  see  his  brother, 
and  told  him  he  was  going  back  with  him.  After 
much  reasoning  and  talking,  it  was  decided  that 
they  should  both  stay.  They  worked  there  for  a 
week  and  then  went  home  rejoicing,  being  re- 
ceived as  if  they  had  been  away  from  home  a 
year. 

After  months  of  watching  the  new  house  being 
built,  they  finally  left  the  dear,  old  log-cabin,  but 
those  days,  so  close  to  nature,  were  red-letter 
days  for  the  poet  and  story-writer.  The  art  of 
printing  was  in  the  blood  of  the  Howells'  family. 
They  seemed  to  take  to  it,  father  and  sons,  as 
their  natural  profession.  When  the  father  pub- 
lished his  newspaper  in  Dayton,  Ohio,  the  boys 
helped  him,  walking  through  cold  and  snow  to 
the  ofiBce  every  day.  William  used  to  laugh  at 
his  father's  way  of  encouraging  him  when  he 
suffered  with  cold  feet.  He  would  say,  "Never 
mind,  just  as  soon  as  your  boots  freeze  your  feet 
will  get  warm." 

In  the  business  of  printing  newspapers  in 
those  days  any  kind  of  farm  produce  was  consid- 
ered  legal    tender.      Wood,    vegetables,    butter, 


TALKS    ABOUT    AUTHORS.  145 

eggs — any  tangible  product — was  better  than 
total  delinquency  of  payment. 

William  remembered  seeing  his  brother  com- 
ing home  one  night  with  a  tiny  pig  as  payment 
for  an  over  due  subscription.  The  boys  used  to 
sit  up  late  at  night  and  watch  them  make  the 
rollers,  cutting  up  glue  in  molasses,  boiling  the 
mixture  to  a  certain  consistency,  and  then  pour- 
ing it  into  moulds  to  cool.  In  the  morning  they 
all  gathered  around  to  see  the  rollers  taken  out, 
often  so  marked  up  with  ridges  they  had  to  be 
cut  up  and  melted  over  again.  In  those  days  the 
newspaper  office  was  the  place  where  men  met  to 
discuss  literature  and  politics.  When  the  weekly 
"New  York  Tribune"  came,  they  would  all  want 
to  read  "The  Trybiuie^''  as  they  called  it,  and 
would  say,  "Let's  see  what  old  Horace  has  to  say 
this  week,"  thinking  that  Greeley  wrote  the 
whole  paper  himself.  All  this  contact  with  news- 
paper life  and  work  fitted  Howells  for  his  career 
as  a  writer  and  editor. 

While  editor  of  the  "Atlantic  Monthly,"  he 
encouraged  many  young  authors.  To-day  he 
still  writes  in  his  cheerful  study  in  New  York 
City,  and  he  still  remembers  the  children.  One 
of  his  latest  stories  is  a  book  for  children  called 
"Christmas  Every  Day." 


146  TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

MUI.BERRIKS. 

"O,  I  mind  the  tree  in  the  meadow  stood 
By  the  road  near  the  hill;  when  I  climb  aloof 

On  its  branches,  this  side  of  the  girdled  wood, 
I  could  see  the  top  of  our  cabin  roof, 

"And  looking  westward,  could  sweep  the  shores 
Of  the  river  where  we  used  to  swim 

Under  the  ghostly  sycamores, 

Haunting  the  waters  smooth  and  dim. 

"And  eastward  athwart  the  pasture-lot, 
And  over  the  milk-white  buckwheat  field, 

I  could  see  the  stately  elm,  where  I  shot 
The  first  black  squirrel  I  ever  killed. 

"And  southward  over  the  bottom-land, 
I  could  see  the  mellow  breadths  of  farm 

From  the  river-shores  to  the  hill  expand, 
Clasped  in  the  curving  river's  arm. 

"In  the  fields  we  set  our  guileless  snares 
For  rabbits  and  pigeons  and  wary  quails; 

Content  with  the  vaguest  feathers  and  hairs, 
From  doubtful  wings  and  vanished  tails. 

"And  in  the  blue  summer  afternoon 
We  used  to  sit  in  the  mulberry  tree; 

The  breaths  of  wind  that  remembered  June 
Shook  tne  leaves  and  glittering  berries  free. 

'  'And  while  we  watched  the  wagons  go 

Across  the  river,  along  the  road 
To  the  mill  above,  or  the  mill  below, 

With  horses  that  stooped  to  the  heavy  load, 


TALKS    ABOUT    AUTHORS.  147 

"We  told  our  stories  and  made  new  plans, 
And  felt  our  hearts  gladden  within  us  again; 

For  we  did  not  dream  that  this  life  of  a  man's 
Could  ever  be  what  we  know  as  men. 

"We  sat  so  still  that  the  woodpeckers  came, 

And  pillaged  the  berries  overhead; 
From  his  log  the  chip-munk,  waxen,  tame, 

Peered  and  listened  to  what  we  said." 

Part  of  a  poem  from  W.  D.  Hoivells'  Poems.    Houghton, 
Mifflin  &  Co. 


FRANCES  WILLARD. 


FRANCES  WILLARD. 
."THE  BRAVE  WESTERN  GIRL." 

Born  September  28.  1839;  Died  1898. 

Just  a  year  ago,  all  the  world  mourned  with 
Chicago  over  the  death  of  ''The  best  loved  woman 
in  America."  This  woman,  who  had  traveled 
over  nearly  every  country  in  the  world  bearing 
her  message  of  love,  was  once  a  little  prairie  girl. 
She  used  to  stand  in  the  barn  door  on  her  father's 
farm  in  Wisconsin,  looking  out  over  the  prairies 
with  not  a  house  in  sight  and  wonder  if  she 
would  ever  go  anywhere. 

Her  father  and  mother  were  well  educated, 
and  their  children  did  not  lose  anything  by  being 
far  away  from  good  schools.  They  taught  them 
many  lessons  that  were  helpful  to  them  all  their 
lives.  Beside  giving  them  daily  instruction  in 
books,  their  mother  was  full  of  sympathy  for  the 
lonely  children  and  invented  many  ways  of 
amusement  for  them. 

The  father  was  especially  strict  about  Sunda}?-, 
forbidding  all  games,  and  would  not  even  look  in 
the  dictionary  for  a  word  on  that  day.  One  day 
little  Frances  had  just  received  a  new  slate  and 
did  not  feel  like  putting  it  away  on  Sunday.    At 

(149) 


150  TALKS    ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

last  she  hit  upon  a  good  plan  and  whispered  it 
to  her  mother.  "May  I  have  my  new  slate  if 
I'll  promise  not  to  draw  anything  but  meeting 
houses?"  The  mother  couldn't  stand  such  a 
plea  as  that  and  told  her  she  would  even  draw 
the  pattern  for  her. 

This  mother  did  not  bring  up  her  children 
"as  girls  or  as  boys,  but  as  human  beings;"  she 
talked  to  them  as  if  they  had  work  to  do  in  the 
world.  Frances  says  "It  never  occurred  to  me 
that  I  ought  to  know  housework  and  do  it. 
Mary  took  to  it  kindly  by  nature,  I  did  not,  and 
each  one  had  her  way.  Mother  never  said  'You 
must  cook,  you  must  sweep,  you  must  sew,'  but 
she  studied  what  we  liked  to  do  and  kept  us  at 
it  with  no  trying  at  all.  There  never  was  a 
busier  girl  than  I,  and  I  did  what  was  mostly 
useful.  I  knew  all  the  carpenters  tools  and 
handled  them,  made  carts  and  sleds,  cross  guns 
and  whip  handles.  Indeed  all  the  toys  that  were 
used  at  "Forest  Home"  were  made  by  children. 
But  a  needle  and  dish  cloth  I  could  not  abide, 
chiefly  because  I  was  bound  to  live  out  of  doors." 

There  is  no  doubt  this  out-of-door  life  strength- 
ened her  for  the  years  of  hard  work  that  followed. 
As  soon  as  she  finished  the  college  education 
which  her  father  was  able  to  give  all  his  daughters 


TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS.  151 

she  determined  to  be  independent  and  teach 
school.  Her  father  had  plenty  of  money  to  keep 
his  family  comfortably,  and  did  not  like  to  have 
Frances  go  away  from  home,  but  when  he  saw 
how  determined  she  was  he  knew  it  was  best 
that  she  should  have  the  experience. 

From  this  time  she  felt  her  call  to  work  for 
humanity. 

By  her  voice  and  pen  she  worked  all  her  life 
for  the  freedom  of  slaves,  the  slaves  of  poverty 
and  bad  habits. 

She  wanted  to  make  happy  homes  all  over  the 
land,  and  a  purer,  happier  childhood  for  all 
children.  Her  Loyal  Temperance  Legion,  num- 
bering thousands  of  children,  have  pledged  them- 
selves against  drinking,  smoking  and  swearing. 
Their  motto  is  "Tremble,  King  Alcohol,  we  shall 
grow  up."  For  the  legion  of  women  enrolled 
in  the  White  Ribbon  Army,  she  chose  the  motto 
"For  God  and  Home,  and  Native  Land,  we  wage 
our  peaceful  War." 

Her  books  will  give  pleasure  to  boys  and  girls 
as  well  as  grown-up  children. 

"Glimpses  of  Fifty  Years,"  gives  the  interest- 
ing details  of  her  whole  life  on  the  farm,  in 
school,  and  her  work  for  the  world. 

"Nineteen  Beautiful  Years,''  the  sweet  story 
of  her  sister  Mary's  life;  "How  to  Win,"  and 
others,  are  all  full  of  helpful  hints  to  earnest 
ambitious  girls  and  boys. 


EDWARD  EVBRETT  HALE;. 


EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE. 

"a  new  ENGLAND  BOYHOOD." 

Born  April  3,  1822. 

Over  seventy  years  ago,  a  little  boy  was  born 
in  Boston,  named  Edward  Hale.  Some  of  you 
may  know  the  dear  old  man,  for  he  is  still  living 
in  Boston  to-day,  and  his  heart  is  full  of  love  for 
all  children. 

The  best  years  of  his  life  have  been  spent  in 
writing  just  the  kind  of  books  boys  and  girls 
like  to  read.  Stories  of  Adventure,  Stories  of 
Travel,  Stories  of  the  sea,  and  many  others. 
The  boys  and  girls  in  his  books  are  like 
real,  live  children.  Have  you  read  his  story, 
"A  New  England  Boyhood"?  It  is  a  story  of 
his  own  boy-life  in  Boston,  the  Boston  of  seventy 
years  ago,  which  was  very  different  from  the 
lively,  active  city  it  is  today.  The  streets  were 
like  those  of  a  quiet  village;  there  were  no  steam 
railroads,  and  no  steamboats.  Food  and  other 
articles  of  commerce  were  brought  from  long 
distances  by  sailing  vessels,  or  in  wagons  from 
the  country  around  Boston.  The  flour  they 
used  came  from  places  as  far  south  as  Rich- 
mond, and  it  took  a  sloop  or  schooner  many 
days  to  go  such  a  long  way. 

(153) 


154  TALKS   ABOUT    AUTHORS. 

One  time  in  the  winter,  the  boy  Edward  and 
his  brothers  were  expecting  a  treat  from  their 
grandmother,  who  lived  in  West  Hampton.  She 
had  sent  them  a  keg  of  home-made  apple-sauce, 
but  the  sloop  on  which  it  was  sent  was  frozen  up 
in  the  river,  and  it  was  almost  four  months  be- 
fore the  boys  got  their  apple-sauce. 

Those  Boston  boys  of  seventy  years  ago  had 
good  times,  just  as  our  boys  have  today. 

When  Edward  was  only  nine  years  old,  he 
had  the  joy  of  learning  to  swim  in  a  large  swim- 
ming school.  He  used  to  play  all  kinds  of  out- 
door games  on  Boston  Common.  It  was  then 
like  an  immense  green  field,  and  cows  were  pas- 
tured there;  but  the  little  folks  playing  there  to- 
day among  the  beautiful  flowers  or  riding  on 
the  Swan  Boat,  have  no  better  times  than  Ed- 
ward and  his  friends  had  playing  soldiers  or  fly- 
ing their  kites  on  the  old  Common.  On  cold 
winter  days  there  was  good  fun  coasting  on  the 
hills  around  Boston,  with  their  old  box-sleds,  and 
skating  with  their  old-fashioned  skates;  but  the 
best  fun  of  all  was  playing  in  the  attic  at  home. 
They  did  not  have  many  toys,  but  they  invented 
and  made  many  things  out  of  planks,  whale- 
bones, spiral  springs,  pulleys,  cat-gut  and  other 
things  that  boys  know  how  to  make  good  use  of. 


TALKS   ABOUT  AUTHORS.  155 

In  their  chemical  experiments  they  were 
allowed  to  use  sulphuric  acid,  litmus  paper  and 
other  materials  dear  to  the  heart  of  the  boy- 
chemist.  Edward  was  only  seven  years  old  when 
he  burned  off  his  eye-brows  by  setting  fire  to 
some  gun-powder  with  a  burning  glass  during  one 
of  his  experiments. 

The  kind  of  matches  we  have  now  were  then 
unknown,  and  fires  were  made  with  the  old  tinder- 
boxes.  Each  box  contained  a  piece  of  flint,  and 
one  of  steel,  which  would  make  a  spark  of  fire 
when  struck  together  and  the  tinder  was  a  piece 
of  charred  linen,  or  something  like  it,  which 
would  kindle  easily. 

At  the  time  when  Edward  was  a  little  boy  they 
were  just  beginning  to  use  "phosphorous  boxes," 
which  were  made  in  Germany.  They  were  little 
red  paper  cylinders  about  four  inches  high,  and 
one  inch  around.  In  the  bottom  of  the  box  was 
a  little  bottle  of  asbestos  soaked  with  sulphuric 
acid,  and  in  the  top  were  a  number  of  matches 
made  from  chlorate  of  potash.  The  way  it  was 
used  was  to  stick  one  of  these  matches  in  the 
bottle  and  when  it  was  pulled  out  it  would  be  in 
a  blaze. 

The  children  used  to  take  one  of  these  boxes 
with  them  on  their  walks  in  the  country,  so  that 


156  TALKS    ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

tliey  could  make  a  little  fire  to  roast  apples  or  to 
warm  their  hands.  Another  thing  they  used  to 
take  with  them  was  what  they  called  a  "truck." 
This  truck  was  a  pair  of  wooden  wheels  on  a 
stout  axle  with  two  thills.  The  seat  held  one 
child,  who  would  sit  and  drive  one  of  the  other 
boys.     Of  course  they  all  took  turns  riding. 

Bdward's  father  was  one  ofthe  men  who  helped 
to  get  the  first  rail-road  in  New  England.  He 
was  the  President  of  the  road. 

"The  Meteor"  was  the  name  of  the  first  loco- 
motive in  New  England,  and  the  boys  used  to 
ride  on  it  many  times  when  it  was  making 
trial  trips.  The  cars  they  used  were  opened  from 
the  side  and  some  of  them  looked  like  the  open 
summer-cars  used  today. 

One  journey  Edward  liked  to  remember  was 
made  on  a  canal  boat  with  the  whole  family. 
The  boat  moved  along  so  slowly  and  smoothly 
the}^  could  get  out  and  run  along  beside  it  on 
the  tow-path,  gathering  flowers.  It  was  exciting 
fun  sometimes  to  lag  a  little  behind  the  boat  and 
then  race  to  catch  up  with  it. 

In  those  days  the  Fire  Department  was  made 
up  of  volunteers,  and  when  a  fire  broke  out  every 
body  ran  to  the  fire  and  most  of  them  shouted 
"Fire"  as  they  ran.     Then  the  church-bells  be- 


TALKS    ABOUT   AUTHORS.  157 

gan  to  ring  and  men  and  boys  ran  to  the  engine 
house  to  drag  out  the  old  engine. 

Don't  3^ou  think  Dr.  Hale  must  smile,  some- 
times, when  he  sees  the  large  well-trained  horses 
springing  into  the  shafts  of  the  engine  at  the 
first  alarm  and  then  rushing  through  the  big 
doors  of  the  engine  house,  when  he  remembers 
how  he  used  to  help  drag  the  old  "New  York," 
as  their  engine  was  called,  to  the  Boston  fires? 

There  is  one  part  of  Dr.  Hale's  story  of  his 
boyhood  that  gives  us  a  glimpse  of  his  happy 
home  life — in  the  evening,  when  they  all  gath- 
ered around  the  table  and  played  quiet  games, 
for  it  was  a  rule  in  their  home  that  no  noisy 
game  should  be  played  in  the  evening.  The 
principal  amusement  was  drawing,  and  they  kept 
plenty  of  paper  and  pencils  in  the  table-drawer 
ready  to  make  their  wonderful  pictures  of  battles, 
animals,  and  all  sorts  of  people. 

Edward  and  his  brothers  and  sisters  used  to 
make  illustrated  magazines.  One  was  called  the 
"New  England  Herald,"  the  other  was  called 
"The  Public  Informer." 

Who  knows,  but  that  writing  for  these  little 
home  papers  was  the  seed  in  Edward's  mind  that 
blossomed  later  and  bore  such  beautiful  fruit,  in 
the  many  books  he  has  written  for  children? 


158  TAI^KS   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

When  you  go  to  the  public  libraries,  look  in 
the  catalogue  for  the  names  of  his  books,  and 
you  will  see  how  busy  he  has  been  all  his  life 
to  write  so  many  of  them.  You  will  learn  to 
know  and  love  him  through  his  books,  and  you 
will  be  especially  glad  to  read  about  his  own 
boyhood  in  his  own  story  of  his  early  life  in 
Boston  in  the  book  called  "A  New  England  Bo}^- 
hood." 

"The  heights  by  great  men  reached  and  kept 

Were  not  attained  by  sudden  flight, 
But  they,  while  their  companions  slept. 

Were  toiling  upward  in  the  night." 

— Longfellow. 


BJORNSTJERNE    BJORNSEN. 
Thk  Norway  Story-Teller. 

Born,  January  25,  1S.32. 

lu  liis  fatherland,  Norway,  Bjornsen  is  known 
as  more  than  a  writer  of  songs  and  stories.     He 

lives  the  daily  life 
of  the  people,  and 
feels  with  them  and 
fights  forthem  with 
his  voice  and  pen. 
He  is  just  the  man 
to  write  the  stories 
of  this  rugged, 
rocky  country.  One 
writer  has  said  of 
him :  "  He  is  the 
great  seed- sower  of 
Norway.  This 
country  is  a  moun- 
tainous land :  it  is 
rocky,  rugged  and  barren.  The  seed  falls  on 
stony  ground,  and  many  a  grain  is  blown  away 
by  the  wind.  But  a  large  quantity  of  his  seed 
has  already  sprouted.  Many  a  tree  planted  by 
his  hand  is  already  in  blossom."  .  The  fruit  of 
these   trees   will   be  gathered   by   many  genera- 

(159) 


BJORNSTJERNE   BJORNSEN. 


160  TALKS   ABOUT    AUTHORS. 

tions,  for  the  work  of  Bjornsen  will  not  die.  The 
book  that  first  made  his  name  known  all  over  his 
own  land,  and  very  soon  over  other  lands,  was 
that  simple,  child-like  story  of  the  Norwegian 
maiden,  "  Synnove  Solbakken."  Bven  critical 
Denmark  received  the  little  book  with  praise. 
The  hero  of  the  book,  Thorbjorn,  mnst  be 
a  type  of  the  vigorous,  stubborn  youth  of 
Norway.  In  his  story  of  "Arne,"  which  is  a 
greater  book,  another  type  of  youth  is  given;  the 
poetical,  the  tender-hearted,  dreamy  youth,  who 
needed  strong  discipline  to  bring  out  the  strength 
of  his  manhood.  These  two  stories,  "Synnore 
Solbakken"  and  "Arne"  are  different,  but  both 
so  true  to  the  nature  of  the  youth  of  Norway,  all 
young  people  love  to  read  them.  Then  came 
his  story  of  "The  Happy  Boy."  The  bubbling 
joy  of  this  story  brought  a  message  to  the  melan- 
choly Norwegians  of  the  joy  of  life,  and  was  like 
a  fresh,  new  note  in  a  beautiful  song. 

This  trio  of  stories  of  peasant  life  was  followed 
by  stories  of  grander  themes.  The  old  Norse 
legends  were  given  new  life,  the  yearnings  of 
the  people  found  expression.  Then  came  stories  of 
lives  of  business  men  of  more  complex  society  life. 
But  his  peasant  stories  will  always  stand  out  as 
evidence  of  his  love  of  pure  human  nature. 


TALKS    ABOUT    AUTHORS.  161 

The  peasants  of  Norway  crowd  by  the  thou- 
sands to  hear  his  voice  whenever  it  is  known  that 
he  is  with  them.  This  love  of  children  and  the 
humble  ones  of  earth  is  the  greatest  tribute  any 
man  can  receive. 

It  was  in  this  way  Ole  Bull,  the  great  violinist, 
and  the  life-long  friend  of  B j  ornsen ,  won  the  hearts 
of  the  people.  He  played  simple  strains,  but  so 
sweet  and  true,  the  lives  of  all  who  heard  him 
were  made  better  and  stronger  b}^  his  music.  In 
all  the  work  of  these  two  men  of  Norway  we  feel 
the  love  they  bore  their  father-land.  Bj ornsen 
has  given  expression  to  this  love  in  many  ways. 
One  of  his  national  songs  begins: 

"Yes,  we  love  with  fond  devotion 

Norway's  mountain  domes, 
Rising  storm-lashed,  o'er  the  ecean 

With  their  thousand  homes." 

There  is  a  beautiful  song  in  Bjornsen's  story 

of'A  Fisher  Maid." 

"We  have  sun  enough,  and  rain. 

We  have  fields  of  golden  grain , 

But   love   is   more   than    fortune,   or    the  best  of  sunny 

weather. 
We  have  many  a  child  of  song 
And  sons  of  labor,  strong, 
We  have  hearts  to  raise  the  North  Land,  if  they  only 

beat  together. 


162  TALKS    ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

In  many  a  gallant  fight 

We  have  shown  the  world  our  might, 

And   reared   the    Norseman's   banner   on   a  vanquished 

stranger's  shore, 
But  fresh  combats  we  will  brave, 
And  a  nobler  flag  shall  wave, 
With  more  of  health  and  beauty  than  it  ever  had  before. 

For  this  North  Land  is  our  own, 

And  we  love  each  rock  and  stone, 

From  the  rugged  old  snow  mountain  to  the  cabins  by 

the  main, 
And  our  love  shall  be  the  seed, 
To  bear  the  fruit  we  need, 
And  the  country  of  the  Norsemen   shall  be  great  and 

one  again." 

And    so    the    Norsemen    still    send    out    their 
songs  and  stories  and  legends  of  the  North  Land. 


THE  STORY  OF  LOUISA  ALCOTT. 

Boru  November  29,  1832;  Died,  1888. 

All  boys  and  girls  love  the  memory  of  Louisa 
Alcott,  for  she  has  given  them  so  many  real 
friends.  They  feel  as  well  acquainted  with  "Jo's 
Boys,"  "Little  Men"  and  "Little  Women"  as  if 
they  had  been  brought  up  with  Jo,  Meg,  Amy, 
Beth  and  "Teddy;"  it  seems  as  if  they  must 
have  gone  to  "Plumfield"  to  school  to  dear  old 
Professor  Bhaer  and  Mrs.  Jo. 

Of  all  the  boys  and  girls  Miss  Alcott  has 
written  about,  we  feel  that  in  Jo's  story  we  have 
the  life  story  of  Louisa  Alcott  herself.  Jo  is  the 
best  loved  of  all  by  the  boys  as  well  as  the  girls. 
When  we  read  her  life  as  told  in  her  journals 
and  letters,  we  find  that  things  really  did  happen 
to  Louisa  Alcott  as  they  did  to  Jo. 

The  dear  "Marmee"  was  her  own  mother, 
with  the  bright  loving  spirit,  always  ready  to 
share  the  little  they  had  to  eat  or  wear  with 
those  who  came  to  her  with  their  troubles. 

Her  motto  was  "Hope  and  keep  busy."  It 
was  "Marmee"  who  inspired  Louisa  to  write  her 
poems  and  her  stories. 

(163) 


LOUISA   M.   ALCOTT. 


TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS.  165 

When  she  was  only  a  little  girl,  one  cold 
morning  the  children  found  a  little  half-starved 
bird.  After  they  had  fed  and  warmed  it,  Louisa 
wrote  a  little  poem  about  it. 

"Welcome,  welcome,  little  stranger; 
Fear  no  harm  and  fear  no  danger; 
We  are  glad  to  see  you  here, 
For  you  sing  'Sweet  Spring  is  near.'  " 

There  was  another  verse  or  two  and  her 
mother  was  so  pleased  she  told  her  she  might 
"grow  up  a  Shakespeare."  This  so  fired  her 
ambition  that  she  kept  on  waiting.  In  her  jour- 
nal she  writes:  "I  continued  to  write  poems  up- 
on dead  butterflies,  lost  kittens,  the  baby's  eyes 
and  other  simple  subjects,  till  the  story -telling 
mania  set  in,  and  after  frightening  my  sisters 
out  of  their  wits  by  awful  tales  whispered  in  bed, 
I  began  to  write  down  these  histories  of  giants, 
ogres,  dauntless  girls  and  magic  transformations, 
till  we  had  a  library  of  small  paper-covered  vol- 
umes, illustrated  by  the  author." 

The  Alcotts  were  very  poor,  but  there  was 
always  sunshine  in  the  house. 

The  dear  good  father  and  the  brave  little 
mother  made  the  children  happy  and  cheerful. 
They  found  their  greatest  pleasure  in  imagining 
all  sorts  of  beautiful  stories    and    acting  them 


166  TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS. 

out  in  the  old  barn.  These  Alcott  children  were 
fortunate  in  having  the  Channings,  the  Haw- 
thornes  and  the  Kraersons  as  their  friends  and 
neighbors.  So  Louisa  grew  up  under  the  most 
favorable  influences  for  writing  good  stories. 

When  the  children  of  the  great  men  were 
playing  on  the  Alcott  farm,  their  fathers  and 
mothers  would  sit  watching  them,  enjoying  their 
pranks,  and  then,  gathering  around  under  the 
trees  of  the  garden,  would  exchange  their  high 
thoughts  with  each  other,  while  little  Louisa 
would  listen  to  their  words  with  honest  love  and 
admiration. 

Louisa  wrote  many  poems  all  through  the 
journal  of  her  child-life,  and  they  show  what  a 
wise  head  the  romping,  quick-tempered  girl  had 
with  her  active,  lively  body. 

One  verse  of  the  poem  called  ''Mj^  Kingdom" 
shows  how  hard  she  tried  to  govern  her  unruly 
temper — 

"How  can  I  learn  to  rule  myself, 

To  be  the  child  I  should— 
Honest  and  brave,  nor  ever  tire 

Of  trying  to  be  good? 
How  can  I  keep  a  sunny  soul 

To  shine  along  life's  way? 
How  can  I  tune  my  little  heart 

To  sweetly  sing  each  day." 


TALKS    ABOUT    AUTHORS.  167 

Her  wild  nature  was  very  hard  to  tame,  and 
her  journal  gives  many  glimpses  of  her  strug- 
gles with  it. 

As  she  grew  to  be  fifteen  or  sixteen  years  old, 
Emerson  had  a  great  and  softening  influence 
over  her.  She  called  him  "My  Goethe."  When 
she  read  Goethe's  "Correspondence  with  a  Child," 
she  was  filled  with  a  desire  to  be  like  Bettina, 
and  to  her  father's  dear  friend,  Emerson,  she 
wrote  her  letters. 

She  wrote  in  her  journal,  "So  I  wrote  letters 
to  him,  but  never  sent  them,  sat  in  a  tall  cherry- 
tree  at  midnight,  singing  to  the  moon,  till  the 
owls  scared  me  to  bed;  left  wild'-flowers  on  the 
door-step  of  my  "Master;"  and  sung  Mignon's 
song  under  his  window  in  very  bad  German." 

At  this  time,  Louisa  had  to  work  very  hard, 
helping  with  the  housework  and  the  care  of  the 
other  children,  besides  her  outside  work  to  earn 
money  to  help  support  the  family.  She  wrote 
cheerily  about  her  work  in  her  "Songs  from  the 
Suds"— 

"Queen  of  my  tub,  I  merrily  sing 

While  the  white  foam  rises  high, 
And  sturdily  wash,  and  rinse,  and  wring, 

And  fasten  the  clothes  to  dry ; 
Then  out  in  the  free,  fresh  air  they  swing 

Under  the  sunny  sky. 


168  TALKS    ABOUT    AUTHORS. 

I  wish  we  could  wash  from  our  hearts  and  our  souls 

The  stains  of  the  week  away, 
And  let  water  and  air,  by  their  magic,  make 

Ourselves  as  pure  as  they; 
Then  on  earth  there  would  be,  indeed, 

A  glorious  washing  day." 

This  period  in  her  life  she  called  the  "Senti- 
mental Period,"  but  she  had  no  love  experiences, 
such  as  Jo  had  with  her  neighbor  Laurie,  or 
"Teddy,"  as  she  called  him. 

Her  writing  at  this  time  was  nearly  all  dra- 
matic. Her  plays  were  good,  in  spite  of  their 
startling  plots  and  unnatural  endings.  One 
called  "Prima  Donnas"  was  accepted  by  the  man- 
ager of  the  Boston  Theater,  but,  from  some  diffi- 
culty in  after  arrangements,  it  was  not  brought 
out.  Her  reward  for  this  play  came,  however, 
in  the  great  joy  of  a  free  pass  to  the  theater  all 
winter. 

A  farce,  called  "The  Trials  of  a  Good-natured 
Man,"  was  brought  out  at  the  Howard  Athe- 
nasum,  and  was  praised  by  the  papers  to  her  sat- 
isfaction. 

When  the  war  with  the  South  grew  hard  and 
bitter,  and  the  boys  from  the  North  needed  nurs- 
ing and  care  as  they  lay  sick  and  wounded  in  the 
Southern    hospitals   far  from   home,  Louisa  felt 


TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS.  169 

that  she  must  go  and  help  them.  She  wrote  of 
this  time:  "We  had  all  been  full  of  courage  until 
the  last  moment  came;  then  we  all  broke  down. 
I  realized  that  I  had  taken  my  life  in  my  hands, 
and  might  never  see  them  all  again.  'Shall  I 
stay,  mother?'  I  said,  as  I  hugged  her  close.  'No, 
go!  and  the  Lord  be  with  you,'  answered  the 
Spartan  woman,  and  till  I  turned  the  corner  she 
bravely  smiled  and  waved  her  wet  handkerchief. 
So  I  set  forth  in  the  December  twilight  with 
Julian  Hawthorne  as  escort,  feeling  as  if  I  were 
the  son  of  the  house  going  to  the  war." 

Her  experiences  during  the  war  are  told  in 
"Hospital  Sketches."  Her  health  broke  down 
there,  and  her  father  had  to  go  after  her.  She 
went  home  to  her  mother  very  ill  with  pneumonia. 
She  said,  "I  was  never  ill  before  this  time  and 
never  well  afterward." 

She  learned  much  by  her  experience  in  the 
hospitals,  and  her  influence  over  the  men  was 
motherly  and  full  of  tenderness.  She  wrote  very 
interesting  letters  to  the  home  folks  which  were 
published  in  a  paper  called  "The  Commonwealth" 
and  attracted  wide  attention,  and  when  "Hospital 
Sketches"  appeared,  it  received  a  hearty  welcome. 
Other  books  followed  this,  until  she  had  made 
enough    money    to   make   all    the    home    folks 


170  TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS. 

comfortable,  and  above  all  to  help  her  sister  May 
who  was  the  Amy  of  "Little  Women,"  with  her 
education  as  an  artist,  and  enough  money  was 
left  for  a  trip  to  Europe,  which  she  writes  about 
in  "Shawl  Straps.''  While  traveling  she  met  a 
Polish  boy,  so  lovable  and  bright,  that  they  be- 
came fast  friends,  and  his  character  was  woven 
into  her  books  as  Laurie,  so  there  was  a  real  live 
Laurie  after  all. 

A  book  of  hers,  almost  as  popular  as  "Little 
Women,"  "The  Old  Fashioned  Girl,"  was  written 
while  sick  in  her  room.  "I  wrote  it  with  my 
left  hand  in  a  sling,"  she  says.  "One  foot  up, 
head  aching  and  no  voice,"  yet,  as  the  book  is 
funny,  people  will  say,  "Didn't  you  enjoy 
writing  it?" 

With  patience,  full  of  courage,  Louisa  Alcott 
kept  on  with  her  loving  work  for  father  and 
mother,  sisters  and  their  children,  until  at  last 
she  had  triumphed  over  the  spectre  of  "worry 
over  money  matters,"  and  the  success  of  her  life 
was  achieved  by  "Little  Women"  and  "Little 
Men." 

This  loving,  large-hearted  woman,  without  any 
boys  and  girls  of  her  own  became  "Aunt  Jo"  to 
hundreds  of  children  all  over  the  world.  Her 
books  are  known  and  loved,  and  the  children  of 


TALKS    ABOUT   AUTHORS. 


171 


other  coimtries  read  them  as  eagerly  as  those  in 
her  own  home-land,  and  she  loved  them  all,  all 
her  "lads  and  lasses." 


LOUISA    M.    ALCOTT'S    HOME,    CONCORD. 

A  verse  she  wrote  for  the  children  of  Concord, 
the  little  New  England  home-town,  will  be  a 
loving  reminder  of  her  cheery  spirit  and  love  for 
children. 

'  'The  world  lies  fair  about  us,  and  friendly  sky  above, 
Our  lives  are  full  of  sunshine,  our  homes  are  full  of  love, 
Few  cares  or  sorrows  sadden  the  beauty  of  our  day. 
We  gather  simple  pleasures,  like  daisies  by  the  way, 


172  TALKS    ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

There's  not  a  cloud  in  heaven,  but  drops  its  silent  dew, 
No  violet  in  the  meadow,  but  blesses  with  its  blue, 
No  happy  child  in  Concord,  who  may  not  do  its  part, 
To  make  the  great  world  better,  by  innocence  of  heart. 
Oh!  blossom  in  the  sunshine, 
Beneath  the  village  tree, 
For  the  little  lads  and  lasses. 
Are  the  fairest  flowers  we  see. 


SAMUEL  CLEMENS. 

]\IARK   TWAIN. 

Born  November  30,  1835. 

All  boys  who  have  made  friends  with  "Tom 
Sawyer"  and  "Huckleberry  Finn"  will  be  glad 
to  know  something  about  Mark  Twain,  who 
wrote  about  their  adventures. 

When  he  was  a  boy  in  Hannibal,  Missouri,  he 
lived  just   such    a   life   as  the  boys   he   writes 

about,  except  in 
the  most  excit- 
ing adventures. 
These  were  what 
the  Hannibal 
boys  wished 
would  happen 
to  them,  but 
some  of  the 
funny  things 
really  did  hap- 
pen to  Mark 
Twain  him- 
self.  When  his 
mother  wanted 
him  to  white- 
wash a  fence,  he 
did  the  same 
thing    that    is 


SAMUEL  CLEMENS. 
MARK  TWAIN. 


(1T3) 


174  TALKS    ABOUT    AUTHORS. 

recorded  of  Huckleberry  Finn.  He  told  all  his 
chums  that  it  was  the  greatest  fun  in  the  world 
to  white- wash,  and  that  there  were  not  many 
boys  who  could  do  it.  He  pictured  it  in  such 
glowing  terms  that  they  all  coaxed  him  to 
let  them  take  turns  at  it,  and  finally  he  accepted 
their  treasures,  with  which  they  bought  this 
great  privilege.  They  gave  him  their  marbles, 
pieces  of  blue  glass,  a  one-eyed  kitten,  two  tad- 
poles and  various  other  precious  things,  dear  to 
boys,  while  he  sat  on  a  fence  and  ate  apples  and 
watched  them  work. 

When  the  boy  was  about  twelve  years  old  his 
father  died,  and  life  then  became  a  more  serious 
affair.  His  mother  was  a  brave  woman  and 
worked  hard  to  provide  for  her  four  children. 
The  boys  all  had  beautiful  dreams  of  being 
steam-boat  men,  especially  of  becoming  pilots. 
The  IMississippi  River  steam-boats  stopped  at 
Hannibal,  which  made  the  only  exciting  event 
in  their  daily  life.  To  watch  the  deck-hands 
unload  the  freight  and  to  catch  glimpses  of  the 
captain  and  the  pilot  was  a  great  joy. 

Samuel,  or  "Mark,"  as  it  seems  more  natural 
to  call  him,  wanted  very  much  to  go  on  one  of  these 
boats.  He  would  have  been  satisfied  to  begin  by 
being  a  cabin  boy,  for  then  he  would  have  come 


TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS.  175 

to  the  side  of  the  boat  to  shake  a  white  table 
cloth  and  this  would  be  a  glory  which  would 
dazzle  the  eyes  of  his  boy  friends.  He  would 
also  have  liked  to  be  a  deck  hand  and  throw  the 
coil  of  rope  as  he  stood  on  the  plank,  but  the 
great  end  of  all  this,  the  chief  glory,  was  to  be  a 
pilot.  At  his  first  start  in  life  it  happened,  how- 
ever, that  he  was  put  to  work  in  a  printing 
office.  Here  he  succeeded  very  well,  except  one 
week  when  the  editor  was  away  and  he  wrote 
some  very  funny  personal  articles  about  some  of 
the  towns  people,  which  roused  them  to  anger, 
but  some  new  subscribers  were  gained  from  peo- 
ple who  wanted  to  read  what  he  had  to  say 
about  their  neighbors.  After  he  had  worked  about 
three  years  in  the  printing  office  and  saved  a  little 
money  he  ran  away  to  New  York.  He  had 
heard  about  an  exposition  that  was  going  on  there. 
He  did  not  stop  at  difBculties,  but  just  "disap- 
peared." Arriving  in  New  York  with  a  ten  dol- 
lar bill  sewed  in  his  coat-sleeve,  and  tw^o  dollars 
in  change,  he  saw  all  he  wanted  to  of  the  exposi- 
tion. He  then  went  to  work  in  a  printing  office. 
After  being  here  there  two  or  three  months  he 
happened  to  meet  a  man  from  Hannibal.  He 
feared  that  the  man  would  tell  the  folks  at  home 
where  he  was,  so  he  ran  away  again,  this  time 


176  TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

to  Philadelpliia.  Here  he  worked  on  the  "Ledg- 
er."  While  in  this  city  he  received  a  terrible 
beating  for  taking  the  part  of  a  little  fellow  who 
was  being  harshly  treated  by  a  fireman.  He 
says  he  looked  like  "Lisbon  after  the  earthquake" 
when  the  man  got  through  with  him.  This  and 
other  experiences  made  him  homesick,  so  he 
started  off  to  his  western  home. 

The  old  fever  for  a  steamboat  life  soon  came 
upon  him  in  great  force,  so  he  ran  away  again 
this  time  to  Cincinnati.  He  tried  every  way  to 
get  a  place  on  a  boat,  and  after  a  trip  on  the 
river  as  far  as  New  Orleans  he  persuaded  a  pilot 
to  teach  him  the  Mississippi  river  from  New 
Orleans  to  St.  Louis,  promising  to  pay  him  from 
his  first  wages.  This  was  really  a  great  under- 
taking to  patiently  study  the  curves  and  bends 
of  thirteen  or  fourteen  hundred  miles  of  the  river 
— but  he  persevered  and  reached  the  height  of 
his  ambition  by  becoming  a  pilot.  He  earned 
two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  per  month  at  this 
work  until  he  was  twenty  six  years  old.  He 
describes  this  part  of  his  life  in  his  book,  "Life 
on  the  Mississippi."  His  genius  for  writing 
was  alive  all  this  time  and  began  to  demand 
expression.  He  published  one  or  two  books 
which  attracted  attention.     In  one  of  his  books 


TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS.  177 

called  "Roughing  It"  lie  records  his  own  ex- 
perience in  having  some  pretty  hard  times. 

During  a  great  silver  excitement,  he  went  off 
with  a  friend  to  try  his  luck  in  mining  in  Ne- 
vada. It  was  two  hundred  miles  from  Carson  to 
the  mines.  They  built  a  rude  cabin,  with  a  can- 
vas roof,  in  a  crevice  in  the  rocks.  He  says: 
"The  cattle  used  to  tumble  in  occasionally  at 
night,  and  smash  our  furniture  and  interrupt  our 
sleep."  They  prospected,  took  up  claims,  named 
them  grand  names,  grew  wildly  excited  and  full 
of  hope  for  future  wealth,  but  it  all  ended  in 
failure,  so  that  Mark  Twain  was  very  glad  to  get 
work  again  on  a  newspaper  for  twenty-five  dol- 
lars a  week.  After  various  other  ventures,  he 
thought  he  would  try  lecturing.  As  he  had 
never  stood  before  an  audience,  his  friends  tried 
to  discourage  him,  but  he  persisted,  hiring  the 
Opera  House  on  credit  and  doing  over  a  hun- 
dred dollars'  worth  of  advertising. 

He  was  much  frightened  about  it  and  lost 
much  sleep,  and  it  was  very  real  to  him,  when 
he  wrote  on  the  posters:  "Doors  open  at  7:30. 
The  trouble  will  begin  at  S:00."  Much  to  his 
amazement,  the  hall  was  packed,  and  he  made 
six  hundred  dollars,  clear  of  expenses.  He  went 
to  New  York  later,  and  made  the  same  venture. 


178  TAI,KS   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

Cooper  Union  Hall  was  filled.  To  his  New 
York  lectures  lie  gave  free  tickets  to  school 
children. 

It  was  after  this  lecturing  trip  that  he  went  to 
Paris,  Italy,  and  the  Holy  Land,  and  wrote  "In- 
nocents Abroad."  His  books  have  been  sold  to 
the  number  of  over  a  million.  It  has  been  said 
of  him  that  they  sold  better  than  those  of  any 
other  writer  of  English.  It  is  possible  that  Kip- 
ling's books  may  sell  equally  well  to-day,  but 
the  books  of  Mark  Twain  are  still  among  the 
very  first  in  popularity. 

Not  long  ago,  he  wrote  in  a  very  different 
style  from  his  usual  funny  fashion,  a  book  about 
"Joan  of  Arc"  that  is  full  of  interest.  He  lived  a 
year  in  Paris,  gathering  facts  of  history  about 
the  "Soldier  Maid,"  and  his  book  shows  that  he 
has  a  talent  for  other  than  the  humorous  and 
pathetic.  "Pudd'nhead  Wilson"  has  been  on  the 
stage,  also  his  "Prince  and  Pauper,"  and  they 
are  both  great  favorites.  But  all  boys,  and  girls, 
too,  like,  best  of  all,  "The  Adventures  of  Tom 
Sawyer"  and  "Huckleberry  Finn."  Very  real 
boys  they  are,  and  Becky  Thatcher  must  be  the 
picture  of  a  little  girl  who  lived  in  Hannibal 
when  Mark  Twain  was  a  boy.  She  and  Tom 
Sawyer  had  a  true  love  for  each  other,  and  this 


TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS.  179 

part  of  the  story  is  very  touching  at  times, 
especially  when  Tom  took  a  flogging  to  save  her 
from  punishment. 

In  Mark  Twain's  books  we  can  read  the  na- 
ture of  the  man.  He  writes  from  chapters  of 
his  own  life,  and  shows  his  bright,  keen  wit,  his 
sunny  good-nature,  and  his  home  happiness. 
His  family  life  has  been  a  very  cheerful  one,  his 
wife  and  daughter  ideal  companions,  and  he  has 
been  surrounded  by  congenial  friends.  In  Hart- 
ford he  lived  at  one  time  next  door  to  Charles 
Dudley  Warner  and  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe. 
William  D.  Howells  is  one  of  his  chosen  friends. 
Although  he  is  now  approaching  old  age,  his 
writings  are  as  strong  and  bright  as    ever. 

He  chose  the  name  "Mark  Twain"  from  one 
of  the  old  boat  calls  on  the  Mississippi.  When 
they  took  soundings  of  the  river,  they  would  call 
out  the  marks  to  be  made,  and  the  familiar 
"Mark  Twain"  rang  in  his  mind,  and  he  wrote 
for  newspapers,  under  that  signature.  Later,  all 
his  work  was  done  under  that  name,  so  that, 
while  all  the  world  knows  "Mark  Twain,"  few  are 
familiar  with  Samuel  Clemens. 

Most  of  his  life  was  spent  in  Elmira,  except 
the  time  spent  in  traveling  to  gather  new  mate- 
rial, and  in    giving  an   occasional  lecture.     He 


180  TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS. 

lost  much  of  the  fortune  he  had  made  by  his 
books  through  the  failure  of  a  publishing  house 
with  which  he  was  connected.  Although  others 
beside  himself  failed,  he  set  to  work  to  pay  all 
the  debts,  and,  by  working  very  hard,  he  suc- 
ceeded, and,  while  he  will  not  be  a  rich  man  in 
his  last  years,  he  will  have  the  satisfaction  of 
knowing  that  others  are  not  suffering  because  of 
his  failure. 

Unlike  most  writers,  his  best  and  hardest  work 
is  done  in  the  summer.  Near  his  home,  but  en- 
tirely separate,  on  top  of  a  high  hill,  he  has  built 
a  small  house  full  of  windows,  shaped  like  a  pilot- 
house. 

Here  he  is  safe  from  disturbance,  and  his  notes 
and  material  gathered  during  the  year  are  sorted 
out  and  put  into  shape  for  printing.  He  works 
very  hard,  and  hardly  stops  long  enough  to  eat. 
How  happy  he  must  be  to  think  of  the  sun- 
shine he  sends  out  from  the  pilot-house  on  the 
hill,  to  comfort  the  troublesome  old  world.  How 
many  hearty  laughs  have  sounded  clear  and  loud 
in  homes  all  over  the  land  from  the  stories  cre- 
ated by  his  fertile  brain. 

We  need  all  the  humor  we  can  get  in  the  hurry 
and  bustle  of  life,  and  Mark  Twain  has  done  his 
share  to  make  life  worth  living. 


TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS.  181 

Oliver  Wendell   Holmes  wrote  the  following 
poem  on  Mark  Twain's  fiftieth  birthday : 

"Ah!  Clemens,  when  I  saw  thee  last, 

We  both  of  us  were  younger; 
Now  fondly  mumbling  o'er  the  past 

To  memory's  toothless  hunger. 

So  fifty  years  have  passed,  they  say, 
Since  first  you  took  to  drinking; 

I  mean  in  nature's  milky  way, 
Of  course,  no  ill  I'm  thinking. 

But,  while  on  life's  uneven  road 
Your  track  you've  been  pursuing, 

What  fountains  from  your  pen  have  flowed. 
What  drinks  you  have  been  brewing! 

I  know  whence  all  your  magic  comes, 

Your  secret  I've  discovered; 
The  source  that  fed  your  inward  flame, 

The  dreams  that  round  you  hovered. 

Before  you  learned  to  bite  or  crunch, 

Still  kicking  in  your  cradle, 
The  Muses  mixed  a  bowl  of  punch. 

And  Hebe  seized  the  ladle. 

Dear  babe!  Whose  fiftieth  year  to-day 
Your  ripe  half  century  rounded. 

Your  books  the  precious  draught  display 
The  laughing  nine  compounded. 

So  mixed,  the  sweet,  the  sharp,  the  strong 

Each  finds  its  faults  amended; 
The  virtues  that  to  each  belong 

In  happier  union  blended. 

And  what  the  flavor  can  compare 

Of  sugar,  spirit,  lemons; 
So,  while  our  health  fills  every  glass, 

Mark  Twain  for  Baby  Clemens." 


FRANCES  HODGSON  BURNETT. 

Born,  Novemlier  24,  1849. 

"Little  Lord  Fauntleroy"  is  a  name  known  in 
every  household,  and  "Dearest,"  his  mother,  is 
loved  almost  as  much  as  the  little  Lord  himself. 
In  a  story  written  by  Mrs.  Burnett  called  "How 
Fauntleroy  Occurred,"  we  find  that  he  was  a  very 
real,  little  boy  and  that  "Dearest"  was  Mrs.  Bur- 
nett herself.  She  was  visiting  in  Paris  when  her 
little  boy  Vivian  was  born.  He  was  as  beautiful 
as  we  all  know  little  Lord  Fauntleroy  to  have 
been.  His  mother  invented  many  stories  to  tell 
him  while  he  was  having  his  long  beautiful  hair 
curled.  "The  Good  Wolf"  and  others  all  in 
"The  Hair-Curling"  series  were  told  him  each 
day  as  he  sat  patiently  by  her  side.  He  had  the 
habit  of  making  dear  friends  of  those  about  him 
just  as  Cedric  Errol  did  of  Mr.  Hobbs  the  grocer 
and  of  Dick  the  boot-black.  He  was  a  staunch 
Republican,  too,  like  Cedric,  and  wrote  to  his 
mother  at  a  very  early  age,  "I  am  sorry  that 
I  have  not  had  time  to  write  to  you  before,  but 
I  have  been  so  occupied  with  the  presidential 
election.  The  boys  in  my  school  knock  me  down 
and  jump  on  me  because  they  want  me  to  go 

(1S2) 


TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS.  183 

Democrat, — but  I  am  still  a  strong  Republican." 
Carrie  and  Dan,  the  colored  cook  and  waiter  at 
his  home,  were  also  great  Republicans,  so  they 
took  him  to  see  torch-light  processions  and  helped 
him  hurrah  for  Garfield.  He  was  only  six  when 
he  began  to  talk  for  woman  suffrage.  His 
mother  was  quite  surprised  one  day  to  hear  him 
say :  "I  believe  ladies  ought  to  be  allowed  to 
vote  if  they  like  it  'cause  what  should  we  do  if 
there  were  no  ladies?  Nobody  would  have  any 
mothers  or  any  wives.  And  nobody  could  grow 
up.  When  any  one's  a  baby,  you  know,  he 
can't  eat  bread  and  things.  And  if  there  were 
no  ladies  to  take  care  of  him  when  he  was  first 
born  he'd  die.  I  think  people  ought  to  let  them 
vote  if  they  want  to." 

His  mother  studied  the  little  fellow  and  often 
wondered  how  he  would  act  if  his  life  should  be 
completely  changed.  In  this  way  Little  Lord 
Fauntleroy's  story  began.  She  said  to  herself, 
"I  will  write  a  story  about  him.  I  will  put  him 
into  a  world  quite  new  to  him  and  see  what  he 
will  do.  Vivian  with  his  curls  and  his  eyes,  and 
his  friendly,  kind  little  soul,  shall  be  a  little  lord." 

As  Mrs.  Burnett  wrote  the  story,  she  used  to 
read  it  to  Vivian  and  his  brother  Lionel,  and  the 
earnest  little  fellow  did  not  know  that  he  was  the 


184  TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS. 

little  lord.  He  used  to  sit  in  a  large  arm-chair 
with  his  hands  on  his  knees  listening.  One  day 
he  said  "I  like  that  boy!  There's  one  thing 
about  him,  he  never  forgets  about  Dearest." 

This  real  boy,  Vivian  Burnett,  must  now 
be  a  man,  for  five  years  ago  his  mother  wrote: 
"He  is  now  sixteen.  He  plays  foot-ball  and 
tennis,  and  battles  sternly  with  Greek.  His 
friends  consider  it  a  good  joke  to  present  him  to 
strangers  as  'Little  Lord  Fauntleroy.'  But 
there  are  things  which  do  not  change  with  the 
darkening  of  golden  hair  and  the  passage  of 
boyish  years." 

In  reading  Mrs.  Burnett's  stories,  we  often 
feel  that  such  children  as  she  writes  about  are 
not  like  the  children  we  know,  for  they  seem  al- 
most too  good  to  be  true;  such  little  girls  as 
"Little  Saint  Elizabeth,"  "Sarah  Crewe,"  and  the 
others.  But  Mrs,  Burnett  must  have  been  a 
very  remarkable  little  girl  herself.  In  the  story 
of  her  child  life,  told  in  her  book  called  "The 
One  I  Knew  Best  of  All,"  we  find  that  Frances 
Hodgson  was  a  little  girl  who  knew  pretty  well 
how  to  take  care  of  herself  Her  life  in  Man- 
chester, England,  was  not  very  exciting,  for  she 
lived  in  a  dull,  manufacturing  town,  and  little 
Frances   longed   for   fields   and   flowers.      Very 


TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS.  185 

early  in  life  she  began  to  watch  people,  to  study 
their  ways,  and  in  her  little  mind  to  make  up 
stories  about  them. 

She  never  forgot  the  people  she  had  seen  in 
this  factory  town  and  the  language  they  used. 
One  of  her  famous  stories,  "That  Lass  o'  Low- 
ries,"  was  written  about  a  girl  she  watched  as  a 
child,  as  she  walked  in  the  public  square,  and 
the  Lancashire  dialect  is  the  same  that  she 
learned,  when  a  litle  girl,  of  these  factory 
workers. 

After  her  father  died,  Frances  used  to  be  very 
lonely.  Her  mother  was  kind  and  gentle,  but 
not  very  fond  of  exciting  books,  and  she  told 
Frances  she  ought  to  read  more  "improving" 
books.  Just  what  kind  of  books  they  were, 
Frances  hardly  knew,  but  she  had  a  vague  idea 
they  were  histories  of  some  kind.  One  rainy 
day  she  made  a  grand  discovery  of  some  story- 
books on  top  of  an  old  secretary  of  her  father's. 
She  read  over  the  names  in  great  excitement — 
"The  Fair  Maid  of  Perth,"  "The  Merchant  of 
Venice,"  and  many  others  just  as  nice.  There 
were  books  full  of  poetry,  too.  She  sat  right 
down  on  the  edge  of  the  secretary,  with  her  little 
legs  dangling,  and  began  to  read  about  the  "Maid 
of  Perth."     The  dreary  afternoon  was  forgotten. 


186  TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

and  hours  afterwards  the  nurse  came  and  brought 
her  down  to  earth,  from  the  heaven  of  reading  a 
real  novel.  "You  naughty  girl!  Sitting  here 
on  your  Ma's  secretary — with  a  book!"  These 
stories  fed  the  little  girl's  imagination,  and  she 
began  to  make  up  stories  of  her  own  to  tell  to 
her  little  friends,  which  were  considered  very 
thrilling,  and  she  always  had  an  audience  of 
open-mouthed,  wide-eyed  children  listening  to 
the  remarkable  adventures  of  her  story-people. 
She  was  greatly  pleased  when  her  mother  decided 
to  move  to  America  with  her  little  family.  She  had 
read  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,"  and  was  glad  the}^ 
would  live  in  the  sunny  south.  In  their  little 
home  in  Tennessee  she  had  the  fields  and  woods 
she  had  longed  for  all  her  life.  She  spent  many 
mornings  lying  on  the  grass  and  pine-needles, 
enjoying  the  sweet  country  air,  watching  the 
birds  and  insects,  and  the  squirrels  and  rabbits. 
When  she  was  about  fifteen  years  old,  cares  be- 
gan to  creep  into  this  country  paradise,  for  they 
were  very  poor,  and  it  was  hard  to  plan  how  to 
keep  the  little  fatherless  family  together.  "I 
wish  I  could  do  something,"  she  said,  over  and 
over,  to  herself,  and  one  day  the  daring  thought 
struck  her:  "Why  not  send  one  of  my  stories  to 
an  editor?"     She  told  this  thought  to  her  sister 


TAI^KS   ABOUT    AUTHORS.  l'S7 

Edith,  and  she  thought  the  editors  would  all  be 
glad  to  get  such  beautiful  stories  as  Frances 
could  write.  Then  came  the  great  problem — 
how  could  they  buy  the  paper  and  stamps?  This 
was  settled  by  both  of  the  girls  picking  wild 
grapes  and  getting  two  little  colored  girls  to  sell 
them.  Then,  with  the  precious  paper  bought 
with  the  grape  money,  she  went  up  to  her  little 
den  in  the  garret  to  write,  for  she  did  not  let  the 
boys  know,  for  fear  she  might  fail.  Every  day, 
with  her  cat  curled  up  in  her  arm,  she  wrote  on 
the  story  to  be  sent.  How  exciting  it  was,  after 
it  was  finished,  to  send  it  off  with  a  note  saying, 
"My  object  is  remuneration."  The  first  editor 
did  not  want  to  pay  any  money  for  it,  so  she  had 
it  returned,  and  then  sent  it  off  to  another  editor. 
The  second  editor  thought  it  could  not  have  been 
written  by  an  American  girl  as  it  was  such  a 
true  picture  of  English  life,  and  he  asked  her  to 
send  another.  She  told  him  that  she  zuas  an 
English  girl,  and  knew  what  she  was  writing 
about.  She  wrote  another  story  and  sent  it  to 
him,  and  he  was  so  pleased  with  them  he  paid 
her  thirty-five  dollars  for  the  two.  This  was 
her  first  experience  with  publishers,  and  she  will 
never  forget  the  excitement  and  pleasure  it  was. 
It  inspired  her  to  write  more  and  more,  and  her 


188  TALKS   ABOUT    AUTHORS. 

pen  is  still  working  in  the  service  of  boys  and 
girls. 

When  her  boy,  Vivian's  brother  Lionel,  died,  a 
a  note  of  sorrow  crept  into  the  stories,  but  this 
has  made  them  ver^^  dear  to  some  hearts,  and 
has  caused  men  and  women  to  be  more  gentle 
and  tender  with  little  children.  "The  Captain's 
Youngest"  and  "Little  Betty's  Kitten"  are  two 
of  the  sad  stories  in  the  group  of  five  in  "Pic- 
cino's  Two  Days."  "Giovanni  and  the  Other" 
is,  perhaps,  one  of  her  very  best  books — but 
Mrs.  Burnett  will  be  known  best,  now  and 
always,  as  the  mother  of  Little  Lord  Faunt- 
leroy. 

There  are  two  or  three  pictures  of  the  little 
boy,  Cedric  Errol,  before  he  went  to  England  to 
become  a  lord,  that  are  dear  to  the  memory  of 
those  who  love  his  kindness  of  heart  and  manly 
spirit.  One  was  his  farewell  to  the  old  apple- 
woman,  when  he  gave  her  money  to  buy  a  tent, 
a  stove  and  a  shawl,  and  said,  "For  I  have  to  go 
to  England  to  be  a  lord,  and  I  shouldn't  like  to 
have  your  bones  on  my  mind  every  time  it 
rained.  My  own  bones  never  hurt,  so  I  think  I 
don't  know  how  painful  a  person's  bones  can  be, 
but  I've  sympathized  with  you  a  great  deal,  and 
I  hope  you'll  be  better."     His  parting  with  Mr. 


TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS.  189 

Hobbs,  the  grocer,  was  a  very  serious  matter, 
both  to  the  grocer  and  the  boy. 

"England  is  a  long  way  off,  isn't  it?" 

"It's  across  the  Atlantic  Ocean,"  Mr.  Hobbs 
answered. 

"That's  the  worst  of  it,"  said  Cedric.  "Perhaps 
I  shall  not  see  you  again  for  a  long  time;  I  don't 
like  to  think  of  that,  Mr.  Hobbs." 

"The  best  of  friends  must  part,"  said  ]\Ir. 
Hobbs. 

"I  never  thought  I  should  have  to  be  an  earl,'' 
said  Cedric  with  a  sigh. 

"You  think  there  is  no  getting  out  of  it  ?  "  said 
Mr.  Hobbs. 

"I'm  afraid  not.  But  if  I  have  to  be  an  earl, 
there's  one  thing  I  can  do;  I  can  try  to  be  a  good 
one.  I'm  not  going  to  be  a  tyrant.  And  if  there 
is  ever  to  be  another  war  with  America  I  shall 
try  to  stop  it."  He  bade  all  his  friends  goodbye 
in  the  same  earnest  fashion,  and  the  little  Ameri- 
can boy  entered  into  his  earldom  in  a  very  dem- 
ocratic spirit.  In  England  his  truth  and  kindli- 
ness made  every  one  who  lived  with  him  more 
kindly  and  gentle,  and  all  who  read  the  book 
will  be  better  and  truer  for  reading  it. 


JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS. 
THE  SOUTHERN  BOY. 

Born,  Decembers,  IS4S. 

Down  in  Georgia,  there  lives  a  man  who  has 
been  thinking  and  working  for  children  for  nearly 
fifty  years.  Born  before  the  civil  war,  in  a  little 
village  called  Eatontown,  in  Georgia,  he  grows 
np,  until  almost  twelve  years  old,  like  most 
country  boys,  fond  of  animals  and  out-door  life, 
but  not  much  in  love  with  school.  The  old  folks 
used  to  shake  their  heads  at  his  pranks  and  say 
that  he  ought  to  have  more  doses  of  "hickory 
oil."  But  Joel  Harris  was  a  kindly,  happy  boy, 
and  he  had  thoughts  that  no  one  knew  anything 
about,  for  he  was  very  shy  and  bashful.  About 
the  time  he  was  eleven  years  old,  he  met  a  man 
by  tKe  name  of  Turner,  who  was  going  to  start  a 
newspaper  in  that  part  of  the  country.  Joel 
thought  it  was  a  great  honor  to  know  a  real 
editor,  and  he  watched  eagerly  for  the  first  copy 
of  the  paper.  Some  one  has  written  about  this 
event  in  his  life,  telling  how  he  curled  up  on  an 
old  green  sofa  in  the  country  store  and  Post- 
Ofifice  reading  the  paper,  when  he  found  an  adver- 
tisement that  Mr.  Turner  wanted  a  boy  to  help 


(19U) 


TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS.  191 

him  and  to  learn  the  printing  business.  The 
store-keeper  gave  him  paper  and  pen  to  answer 
the  advertisement,  and  he  secured  the  place. 

Mr.  Turner  lived  on  a  large  plantation,  for  he 
M^as  a  rich  man  owning  many  slaves  and  animals. 
Joel  lived  with  him,  and  Mr.  Turner  liked  him, 
for  he  was  so  quick  to  learn  his  duties  and  kind 
to  those  around  him.  But  Joel  learned  more 
outside  the  office  than  in  it.  The  old  colored 
people,  and  the  young  ones  too,  all  liked  him,  and 
it  was  on  this  plantation  that  he  heard  all  the 
wonderful  stories  he  has  been  telling  children  in 
these  later  years. 

There  was  a  real  live  Uncle  Remus,  who 
knew  about  Br'er  Rabbit  and  Br'er  Fox,  and 
all  the  other  animals.  In  the  South  the  rabbit 
is  an  animal  of  much  importance.  The  rabbits' 
left  hind-foot  carried  in  the  pocket  is  a  great 
charm  against  trouble,  and  the  stomach  of  a  rab- 
bit ground  fine,  is  supposed  to  cure  disease. 

Uncle  Remus  told  many  wonderful  tales  of  the 
Rabbits'  power  over  other  animals,  even  poor 
"r^Iiss  Cow''  became  a  victim.  The  "Tar  Baby 
Story"  is  perhaps  the  funniest  of  all  the  Uncle 
Remus  stories.  The  little  boy  to  whom  Uncle 
Remus  told  his  stories,  asked  him,  "Didn't  the 
fox  never  catch  the  rabbit.  Uncle  Remus  ?  "     "He 


192  TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS. 

came  mighty  nigh  it,  honey,  sho's  you  bawn — 
Br'er  Fox  did."  Then  he  tells  him  about  the  Tar 
Baby  the  Fox  made  to  catch  Br'er  Rabbit,  but 
as  usual  Br'er  Rabbit  wins.  Another  funny  one 
is  the  story  of  "Miss  Meadows  and  the  Gal's" 
helping  Br'er  Rabbit  to  get  a  wife,  "Miss  Molly 
Cotton-Tail." 

These  Rabbit  stories  of  Uncle  Remus  took 
deep  hold  on  the  boy's  imagination,  and  his  sym- 
pathy for  all  animals  and  for  the  colored  people 
shines  through  all  that  he  has  written.  When 
we  read  the  stories  told  the  boy  in  his  ''Nights 
with  Uncle  Remus,"  it  is  hard  not  to  believe  that 
the  animals  really  talked  to  each  other,  as  he 
says  they  did,  and  we  feel  that  rabbits  must  be 
the  funniest  creatures  alive  to  play  such  tricks 
as  Br'er  Rabbit  played  on  Br'er  Fox.  We  even 
look  at  solemn  old  turtles  and  wonder  if  they  are 
as  full  of  wisdom  as  Uncle  Remus  would  have  us 
believe  his  Br'er  Terrapin  was.  After  reading 
one  of  these  books  all  animals  seem  to  think,  and 
talk,  and  act  like  people.  This  is  where  their 
great  charm  lies.  The  writer  has  put  himself  in 
their  places  and  tried  to  make  them  talk  in  the 
stories  just  as  they  really  would  talk  if  they 
could. 

But  the  boy  on  the  plantation  with  his   warm 


TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS.  1Q3 

heart  felt  more  deeply  for  the  poor  black  slaves. 
He  listened  to  stories  they  would  tell  each  other 
of  their  suiFerings  from  cruel  masters  and  from 
wandering  in  the  wilderness,  hiding  from  the 
slave-hunters.  In  his  book  "Aaron  in  the  Wild- 
wood,"  we  have  the  story  of  one  of  these  run- 
aways told  in  such  an  earnest  way  we  know  it 
must  be  a  true  story  of  those  old  slave-days.  If 
it  had  been  written  before  the  war  like  Mrs. 
Stowe's  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin"  and  "Dred"  it 
would  have  made  as  great  a  stir  in  the  world  as 
those  books  did.  There  is  hardly  a  child  in  the 
North  or  the  South  that  does  not  love  Aaron  after 
reading  this  book,  and  their  hearts  are  glad  when 
they  read  of  his  safe  home,  at  last,  with  the 
"Little  Master,"  after  all  his  wandering  in  the 
forest. 

In  this  same  book  we  also  learn  much  of  the 
intelligence  of  horses,  which  the  boy,  Joel, 
learned  while  he  watched  and  tended  the  horses 
on  the  plantation.  The  wild  black  stallion  Tim- 
oleum  was  gentle  as  a  child  under  Aaron's  firm, 
kindly  hand,  and  his  gentle  voice  controlled  his 
fiery  spirit.  It  is  very  amusing  to  picture  the 
fright  of  the  slave  hunters  or  "patter  rollers," 
as  they  were  called,  who  were  searching  for 
Aaron,  when,  at  his  command,  Timoleum  came 


194  TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

flying  through  the  air,   like  a  black  spectre  to 
frighten  them  away. 

All  the  books  written  by  this  grown-up  plan- 
tation boy  are  so  full  of  interest  it  is  hard  to 
choose  which  we  like  best.  "Daddy  Jake  The 
Runaway,"  "Nights  with  Uncle  Remus,"  "Min- 
go," "Blue  Dave,"  "Free  Joe,"  and  others  are  full 
of  stories  about  the  slaves  and  told  by  them. 

Then  there  are  other  books  like  "At  Teague 
Poteet's"  which  tell  of  the  lives  of  the  poor  white 
people  of  the  Southern  Mountains.  Teague 
Poteet's  little  girl  Sis,  seems  to  us  as  fair  as  a 
wild  rose,  surrounded  by  briars.  She  grew  on 
the  mountains, sweet  and  pure,  among  the  rough 
people.  Her  father,  Teague,  was  what  they 
called  a  "moonshiner,"  that  meant  one  of  the 
men  who  made  and  sold  whiskey  withbut  a  license 
from  the  government.  They  hid  in  the  moun- 
tains from  the  officers,  and,  when  the  spies  of  the 
government  found  them  out,  they  usually  had 
desperate  fights.  The  mountain  people  did  not 
need  to  use  much  money,  so  Teague  Poteet  had 
almost  given  up  the  idea  of  making  any  more 
whiskey  when  this  beautiful  little  girl  came  into 
his  home. 

She  w^as  so  bright,  he  determined  that  she 
must  be  educated  down  in   the  town.     He  told 


TALKS   ABOUT  AUTHORS.  195 

her  that  he  wanted  her  to  grow  up  in  a  better 
way  than  the  poor  little  mountain  children. 
When  Sis  heard  about  going  to  school,  she 
looked  down  at  her  dress  and  shook  her  head. 
She  was  ashamed  to  go  to  the  town  school  in 
such  an  old  dress.  This  made  her  father  feel  so 
sorry  that  he  got  out  the  old  "whiskey  still" 
again,  and  began  working  at  the  old  bad  busi- 
ness. He  soon  made  enough  money  to  dress  his 
little  girl  suitably,  and  she,  not  knowing  where 
the  money  came  from,  was  pleased,  and  made 
wonderful  progress  at  school.  The  sudden  in- 
crease of  drinking  on  the  mountain  began  to  at- 
tract the  attention  of  the  officers  and  a  spy  was 
sent  up  there.  This  spy  was  a  brave,  kindly 
young  man,  and  all  the  mountain  people  grew  to 
like  him.  He  was  especially  welcome  at  the 
home  of  Teague  Poteets.  The  story  of  his  love 
for  Sis,  and  the  final  breaking  up  of  the  moon- 
shiners and  their  bad  business,  is  told  in  Mr. 
Harris'  own  best  way. 

"Little  Mr.  Thimblefinger  and  His  Queer 
Country"  and  "Mr.  Rabbit  at  Home"  are  two 
more  stories  of  the  surprising  experiences  of 
"Br'er  Rabbit"  and  some  little  children  in  a 
queer  country. 

The  stor}^  of  the  boyhood  of  Mr.  Harris  him- 


196  TALKS    ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

self  is  told  in  his  book  "On  tlie  Plantation;  A 
Georgia  Boy's  Adventures  During  the  War." 
This  is  a  particularly  interesting  story,  as  we 
feel  that  he  is  giving  us  true  pictures  of  his  own 
life. 

Sherman's  march  through  Georgia,  with  all 
its  consequences,  changed  the  boy's  whole  life, 
and,  when  Mr.  Turner  set  all  his  slaves  free, 
Joel  Harris  had  to  leave  the  plantation  and  go 
out  into  the  world  to  try  to  make  his  fortune,  tak- 
ing with  him  the  Vealth  of  old  stories  told  him 
by  the  colored  folks,  and  the  many  lessons  he 
had  learned  about  animals,  men,  women  and 
children  by  his  keen  observation  during  his  life 
on  the  old  Georgia  plantation. 

His  knowledge  of  printing  helped  him  to  get 
work  in  a  newspaper  of&ce.  As  he  grew  older, 
he  wrote  out  the  stories  with  which  his  head 
was  filled,  and  had  them  pubHshed  in  different 
papers,  and  was  quite  surprised  that  the  people 
liked  them  so  well.  He  wrote  in  the  preface  of 
his  book,  "Uncle  Remus  and  His  Friends:"  "The 
stories  here  gathered  together  have  been  caught 
for  me  in  the  kitchen,  and  were  written  simply 
and  solely  because  of  my  interest  in  the  stories 
themselves,  in  the  first  place,  and,  in  the  second 
place,  because  of  the  unadulterated   human  na- 


TALKS   ABOUT  AUTHORS.  197 

ture  that  might  be  found  in  them.  As  I  wrote 
them  with  my  own  children  around  me,  or  their 
voices  sounding  not  far  away,  I  seemed  to  see 
other  children  laughing  as  the  homely  stories 
were  read  to  them.  I  seemed  to  see  gray-haired 
children  smiling  as  if  they  found  here,  close  to  the 
.earth,  a  stroke  of  simplicity  ringing  true  to  life." 

And  the  gray -haired  children  do  enjoy  them 
as  much  as  the  little  ones.  Every  household  is 
fortunate  where  his  stories  are  known  and  loved. 

Mr.  Harris  lives  in  a  beautiful  home  near  At- 
lanta, and  writes  much  for  the  "Atlanta  Consti- 
tution," one  of  the  largest  papers  of  the  South, 
besides  giving  us  a  new  book  or  two  each  year, 
one  of  his  latest  being  "Tales  of  the  Home  Folks 
in  Peace  and  War."  He  is  very  plain  in  his 
tastes,  avoids  meeting  strangers  as  much  as  pos- 
sible, and  is  happy  when  writing  by  the  fire-side 
with  his  mother,  wife  and  four  children  about 
him.  At  one  time,  he  had  a  study  built  to  write 
in,  but  he  felt  so  lonely  there,  he  soon  moved 
back  to  the  family  room.  In  the  front  rank  of 
writers,  standing  abreast  with  Kipling  as  one  of 
the  best  story-tellers  of  the  century,  he  still 
wonders  why  his  simple  tales  of  the  home  folks 
should  so  move  the  hearts  of  men,  women  and 
children. 


EUGENE  FIELD. 


EUGENE  FIELD, 

THE     CHILD-LOVER. 

Boru  September  2,  ISSO;  Died  18Q5. 

In  that  home  in  Chicago,  which  used  to  be  so 
bright  with  the  presence  of  the  dear  poet,  it 
must  be  very  lonely  now  that  he  is  gone. 

Besides  the  children  and  his  dear  wife,  his  pets 
were  his  books.  He  loved  to  wander  around 
old  bookstores  to  hunt  for  treasures.  His  wife 
would  tell  him  he  made  idols  out  of  the  old 
musty  things.  He  would  laugh,  often,  at  her 
trials  with  him,  and  would  tell  of  a  dream  he 
once  had  of  going  to  heaven  and  meeting  Job. 
"O,  you're  that  patient  man,"  and  Job  answered, 
"Yes,  I  was  the  most  patient  man  the  world  ever 
knew,at  one  time,  but  I've  heard  since  that  there 
is  a  woman  now  living  who  has  beaten  my  record 
all  to  pieces,"  and  when  Mr.  Field  eagerly  won- 
dered who  it  could  be,  the  answer  came,  "She 
lives  in  a  wicked  place  called  Chicago,  and  her 
name  is  Mrs.  Eugene  Field." 

This  great  man,  with  the  tender  heart,  had 
the  most  precious  memory  of  his  mother.  "My 
little  mother,  who  left  me  when  I  was  six  years 
old,''    he    would    say.      One    day  a    friend    said 

(199) 


200  TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

to  liim,  "You  have  everything,  home,  wife, 
bright  children,  your  brilliant  career;  there  seems 
to  be  nothing  wanting." 

He  replied,  "I  have  a  thousandfold  more  than 
my  deserts,  yet,  if  my  mother  had  but  lived  to 
feel  a  little,  just  a  little,  proud  of  her  boy.'' 

Mr.  Field  had  such  a  love  for  the  children  that 
there  were  many  homes  in  Chicago  where  he  was 
welcomed  as  a  jolly  older  brother.  No  matter 
what  business  he  had  on  hand,  the  children's 
claims  always  came  first. 

The  story  is  told  that,  on  his  wedding  day,  the 
bride  and  guests  were  waiting,  and  some  of  his 
friends,  who  went  in  search  of  him,  found  him 
down  on  his  knees  in  the  mud,  trying  to  settle  a 
dispute  over  marbles  with  some  little  street  boys. 
When  children  wrote  to  him,  he  always  took 
time  to  write  breezy  little  notes  to  them.  One 
little  girl  received  one  telling  her  of  all  the  beau- 
ties of  nature  he  could  see  from  his  windows;  the 
lovely  flowers  and  the  birds,  ending  by  saying, 
"Now,  I  must  go  out  and  shoot  a  buffalo  for 
breakfast." 

Many  a  child,  lying  alone  in  the  dark,  thinks 
of  his  poem  called 


TALKS   ABOUT    AUTHORS.  201 


"SEEIN'  THINGS  AT  NIGHT." 

I  ain't  afeard  of  snakes,  or  toads,  or  bugs,  or  worms,  or 

mice, 
An'  things  that  girls   are  skeered   uv   I  think   are  awful 

nice; 
I'm  pretty  brave,  I  guess,  an'  yet  I  hate  to  go  to  bed, 
For,  when  I'm  tucked  up  warm  an'  snug,  an'  when  my 

prayers  are  said, 
Mother  tells  me  "Happy   Dreams!"  an'  takes  away  the 

light 
An'  leaves  me  all  alone,  an'  seein'  things  at  night. 

Lucky  thing  I  ain't  a  girl,  or  I'd  be  scared  to  death; 
Bein'  I'm  a  boy,  I  duck  my  head  an'  hold  my  breath, 
An'  I  am,  oh!  so  sorry  I'm  a  naughty  boy,  an'  then 
I  promise  to  be  better,  an'  say  my  prayers  again; 
Gran' ma  tells  me  that's  the  only  way  to  make  it  right 
When  a  feller  has  been  wicked  an'  sees  things  at  night. 

An'  so,  when  other  naughty  boys  would   coax  me  into 

sin, 
I  try  to  skwush  the  Tempter's  voice  'at  urges  me  within, 
An*,  when  they's  pie  for  supper,  or  cakes  'at's  big  an' 

nice, 
I  want  to — but  I  do  not  pass  my  plate  for  them  things 

twice; 
No,  ruther  let  starvation  wipe  me  slowly  out  o'  sight. 
Than    I   should   keep    a   livin'   on    an'   seein'    things  at 

night. 

How  lie  entered  into  the  childish  plays  of  the 
children  is  shown  in  many  of  his  poems — 

"With  big  tin  trumpet  and  little  red  drum. 
Marching  like  soldiers,  the  children  come; 
It's  this  way  and  that  way  they  circle  and  file. 
My !  but  that  music  of  theirs  is  fine. 


202  TALKS   ABOUT    AUTHORS. 

This  way  and  that  way,  and,  after  awhile, 

They  march  straight  into  this  heart  of  mine. 
O!  sturdy  old  heart,  but  it  has  to  succumb 
To  the  blare  of  that  trumpet  and  beat  of  that  drum. 

Come  on,  little  people,  from  cot  and  from  hall, 
This  heart  it  hath  welcome  and  room  for  you  all; 
It  will  sing  you  its  song  and  warm  you  with  1  )ve, 

As  your  dear  little  arms  with  my  arm  intertwine; 
It  will  rock  you  away  to  the  dreamland  above, 

Oh!  a  jolly  old  heart  is  this  heart  of  mine — 
And  jollier  still  it  is  bound  to  become 
When  you  blow  that  big  trumpet  and  beat  that  big  drum." 

The  sad  note  in  his  songs,  when  his  own  little 
son  left  the  home  nest,  is  found  in  "Little  Boy 
Blue"  and  others.  But  he  tried  to  be  cheery  for 
the  sake  of  the  other  children.  His  children's 
"Sleepy  Song"  has  been  sung  to  many  little  ones, 
and  all  his  songs  will  strike  tender  chords  in  the 
lives  of  children  for  years  to  come — 

"The  Rock-a-bye  Lady  from  Hush-a-bye  Street 

Comes  stealing,  comes  creeping. 
The  poppies  they  hang  from  her  head  to  her  feet. 
And  each  hath  a  dream  that  is  tiny  and  fleet; 
She  bringeth  here  poppies  to  you,  my  sweet, — 

When  she  findeth  you  sleeping. 

Would  you  dream  all  those  dreams  that  are  tiny  and  fleet. 

They'll  find  you  sleeping. 
So,  shut  the  two  eyes  that  are  weary  and  sweet, 
For  the  Rock-a-bye  Lady  from  Hush-a-by  Street, 
With  poppies  that  hang  from  head  to  her  feet — 

Comes  stealing,  comes  creeping." 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 
THE  SCOTCHMAN. 

Born,  November  13,  1S50;  Died,  1894. 

This  "poet  of  the  joy  of  life,''  as  one  of  his 
friends  said  "the  poet  of  the  here,  and  now,"  was 

a  Scot  of  the  Scots. 
His  mother  was 
Margaret  Balfour 
of  the  good  old 
Scotch  family  bear- 
ing that  name.  His 
father  not  only  set 
up  light  -  houses 
himself  but  was 
directly  descended 
from  Robert  Stev- 
enson, who  planted 
a  light -house  on 
the  wave-swept  Bell 
STEVENSON.  Rock,  which  made 

safety  on  the  North  Sea  where  danger  and  death 
had  been  before,  on  the  cruel  cliffs.  Kipling 
sings  of  their  light-houses,  in  his  "Songs  of  the 

English:" 

(2a3) 


M      ^ 

f^**/ 

^^^^Msy^^^^l 

k 

^ 

204  TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS. 

"From  reef  and  rock   and  skerry  over  headland,   ness, 

and  voe 
The   coast-guardlights   of  England  watch  the  ships  of 

England  go." 

Little  Robert's  boyhood  was  spent  in  the 
shadow  of  the  Edinburgh  Castle.  Much  of  his 
time  while  a  little  boy  was  passed  in-doors,  as  he 
was  a  sickly  child,  but  he  had  a  sweet  disposition 
and  made  many  plays  for  himself.  His  poems 
for  children  in  his  "Garden  of  Verses,"  are  full 
of  memories  of  this  part  of  his  life.  "The  Land 
of  Counterpane,"  one  of  the  sweetest,  was  a  picture 
of  his  boy-land,  when  his  days  were  full  of  pain. 
His  active  mind  helped  him  over  these  hard 
places.  When  only  six  years  old  he  dictated  a 
"History  of  Moses,"  illustrating  the  story  with 
figures  with  pipes  in  their  mouths.  When  nine 
years  old  he  wrote  a  story  called  "Travels  in 
Perth."  He  was  fortunate  in  having  a  very  kind 
and  loving  nurse.  He  called  her  "his  first  wife 
and  second  mother."  Miss  Cunningham  came 
to  the  family  when  Robert  was  only  one  year 
and  a  half  old.  She  was  very  gentle  to  the  sick- 
ly boy.  He  called  her  "Cummy"  always.  When 
he  had  long  sleepless  nights  she  would  roll  him 
in  a  blanket  and  carry  him  to  the  window  where 
he  could  see  the  street  lamps  and  the  stars. 


TALKS    ABOUT   AUTHORS.  205 

In  his  poem  called  "The  Lamp-lighter,"  we 
can  imagine  him  sitting  in  Cummy's  lap  early 
in  the  evening  looking  for  the  lamp-lighter  to 
pass  by. 

"My  tea  is  nearly  ready,  and  the  sun  has  left  the  sky, 

It's  time  to  take  the  window  to  see  lycerie  going  by, 

For  every  night  at  tea-time,   and  before  you  take   your 

seat; 
With  lantern  and  with  ladder,  he  comes  posting  up  the 

street. 

For  we  are  very  lucky,  with  a  lamp  before  the  door, 
And  Leerie  stops  to  light  it,  as  he  lights  so  many  more. 
And  O!  before  you  hurr}"-  by  with  ladder  and  with  light, 
O!  Leerie,  see  a  little  child,  and  nod  to  him  to-night." 

Cumniy  used  to  have  trouble  to  make  the 
little  boy  eat,  so  she  bought  a  picture  of  a 
child  with  fat  cheeks,  eating  bread  and  milk 
out  of  a  wooden  bowl.  She  hung  this  in  the 
nursery  and  would  point  to  it,  saying,  "See  his 
rosy  cheeks;  that  is  because  he  eats  his  dinner 
like  a  good  child.  Only  take  a  wee  bite  of  this 
beautiful  bread,  see  it  is  made  of  the  finest  of 
the  wheat."  Years  afterward  when  Mr.  Steven- 
son was  living  in  Samoa  and  furniture  from 
Scotland  was  sent  to  him,  his  joy  was  great  when 
he  discovered  this  old  picture.  He  stood  before 
it  murmuring  "The  v^ry  finest  of  the  wheat." 


206  TALKS    ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

Like  a  great  many  Scotch  people  Cummy  had 
very  strict  notions  and  she  taught  this  lad,  (who 
was  to  write  so  many  novels  when  he  grew  up) 
that  it  was  wicked  to  read  novels.  When  she  was 
reading  aloud  to  him  she  would  say  ''This  is  no 
novel,  ye  ken  they're  just  family  stories."  At 
one  time  she  was  reading  a  very  exciting  story 
in  Cassel's  Family  Paper,  about  the  Crimean 
War,  called  "The  Soldier  of  Fortune,"  when  she 
suddenly  cried  out,  "Hoots,  I'm  afraid  this  will 
turn  out  a  regular  novel." 

That  night  the  boy  had  a  bad  pain  in  his  side, 
and  he  thought  it  must  be  a  punishment  for  read- 
ing a  novel.  He  told  Cummy  they  must  not 
read  another  bit  of  it,  so  often  after  that  the  two 
would  walk  down  Princess  street  and  look  in  a 
shop- window  at  the  pictures  of  each  new  number 
of  the  paper.  Years  afterwards  he  finished  the 
story,butpoorCummy  never  knewhow  it  allended. 

Not  long  ago,  Cummy  was  talking  of  her  dear 
laddie  to  one  of  his  friends  and  she  said,  "The 
last  time  I  saw  him  he  told  me  before  a  room  full 
of  people  'it's  yourself  that  gave  me  a  passion 
for  the  drama,  Cummy,'  says  he.  'Me  Master 
Lou,'  I  said,  'I  never  put  foot  inside  a  play  house 
in  my  life!'  'Aye  woman!' says  he, 'but  it  was  the 
grand  dramatic  way  yehadofrecitingthe  hymns.'  " 


TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS.  207 

During  the  Crimean  War  he  was  a  tiny  boy. 
One  day  some  one  asked  him  if  he  would  like  to 
be  a  soldier.  He  answered,  "I  would  neither  like 
to  kill  or  be  killed." 

As  he  grew  older  and  stronger,  he  was  sent  to 
Swanston  to  school,  but  the  boy  longed  for  the 
freedom  of  out-door  life,  and  played  truant  very 
often,  lying  on  the  sands  long,  beautiful  hours, 
dreaming  and  thinking  out  visions  that  in  after 
years  took  shape  in  many  wonderful  stories. 

It  is  hard  to  realize  that  the  dreamer,  the  man 
whose  whole  life  was  full  of  physical  weakness, 
could  write  stories  like  "Treasure  Island,"  so  full 
of  life  and  action.  Who  knows,  but  that  the 
characters  like  Jim  Hawkins  were  only  the  out- 
let, the  outward  expression  of  the  restless,  active 
soul,  captive  in  the  sickly  body ! 

In  many  of  his  books  we  find  his  love  for  the 
ocean  and  the  wild  rocky  coast.  And  the  weird 
old  legends  of  Scotland  found  a  place  in  his 
memory. 

For  the  children,  he  writes  just  what  the  chil- 
dren like  best.  His  childhood  days  were  always 
fresh  in  his  memory.  His  days  on  the  farm 
seemed  only  as  yesterday.  When  he  wrote  long 
years  after — 


208  TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS. 

"The  coach  is  at  the  door  at  last, 
The  eager  children,  mounting  fast, 
And,  kissing  hands,  in  chorus  sing 
"Good-bye,  good-bye  to  everything!" 

To  house  and  garden,  field  and  lawn, 
The  meadow- gates  we  swung  upon, 
To  pumps  and  stable,  well  and  swing, 
"Good-bye,  good-bye  to  everything!" 

Crack  goes  the  whip,  and  off  we  go. 
The  trees  and  houses  smaller  grow; 
Last,  round  the  woody  turn  we  swing, 
"Good-bye,  good-bye  to  everything." 

— Farewell  to  the  Farm. 

When  Stevenson  was  a  young  man,  he  came 
to  this  country  in  the  old  steamer  "Devonia," 
He  took  steerage  passage  that  he  might  learn 
for  himself  the  experiences  of  the  steerage  pas- 
senger. When  he  landed  at  Castle  Garden,  the 
men  always  waiting  to  fleece  the  poor  emigrants 
charged  him  a  large  sum  to  take  him  and  his 
baggage  about  two  blocks  in  the  bottom  of  an 
old  baggage  wagon.  He  stayed  at  an  old  tavern 
kept  by  an  Irishman  at  No.  10  West  Street. 
After  this,  he  went  out  west  on  an  emigrant 
train.  These  experiences  are  recorded  in  his 
books  "Across  the  Plains"  and  "The  Silverado 
Squatters." 

Always  writing  and  working  in  defiance  of  ill- 


TALKS    ABOUT    AUTHORS.  209 

health  and  suffering,  Stevenson  sought  health  iu 
Samoa,  where  his  last  years  were  spent.  From 
there  he  sent  out  to  the  world  many  of  his 
marvelous  stories.  From  his  many-sided  nature 
came  many-sided  stories.  Some  weird  tales  of 
horror  like  the  "Master  of  Ballantrae,"  others  of 
deep  interest  to  students  of  human  nature,  like 
"The  Strange  Story  of  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde," 
which  Richard  Mansfield  has  played  to  many 
thousands  of  people  in  this  and  other  countries. 
We  marvel  at  the  large  amount  of  work  accom- 
plished by  this  man,  working  almost  in  the  face 
of  death,  and  we  honor  his  courage  and  love  his 
cheerfulness. 

In  years  to  come  the  children  who  gather 
flowers  in  his  "Child-garden  of  Verses"  will  keep 
fresh  and  green  the  memory  of  that  brave  man 
who  died  in  his  island  home  at  Samoa — 

"He  is  uot  dead,  this  friend — not  dead, 
But  in  the  path  no  mortals  tread 
Got  some  few  trifling  steps  ahead, 
And  nearer  to  the  end." 

GOOD  AND  BAD  CHILDREN. 

(Part  of  a  Poem  from  "The  Child's  Garden  of  Verses.) 

Children,  you  are  very  little, 
And  your  bones  are  very  brittle; 
If  you  would  grow  great  and  stately. 
You  must  try  to  walk  sedately. 


210  TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS. 

You  must  Still  be  bright  and  quiet, 
And  content  with  simple  diet, 
And  remain  through  all  bewild'ring 
Innocent  and  honest  children. 

Happy  hearts  and  happy  faces, 
Happy  play  in  grassy  places — 
That  was  how,  in  ancient  ages. 
Children  grew  to  kings  and  sages. 

But  the  unkind  and  unruly. 
And  the  sort  who  eat  unduly. 
They  must  never  hope  for  glory — 
Theirs  is  quite  a  different  story ! 


JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 
THE  HOOSIER  BOY. 

Born,  1852. 

Ill  a  little  town  in  Indiana  called  Greenfield, 
this  boy  was  born,  and  a  jolly  little  fellow  he 
was  with  big  freckles  on  his  face  and  his  hair 
almost  white.  His  father  was  a  lawyer  and  a 
Quaker.  He  was  very  proud  of  his  boy,  and 
couldn't  wait  for  him  to  get  old  enough  to 
wear  trousers,  so  he  bought  a  small  piece  of  cloth 
and  cut  him  out  a  suit  of  clothes  and  made  them 
himself.  It  was  a  wonderful  suit  with  long 
trousers  reaching  to  the  feet,  and  a  "Shad-belly" 
coat  with  bright  brass  buttons.  Dressed  in  this 
he  took  him  to  court,  and  he  looked  so  much  like 
one  of  the  staid  old  Judges  cut  down  they  nick- 
named him  Judge  Wick.  The  little  fellow  used 
to  sit  on  a  window  ledge  and  watch  all  that  went 
on  in  the  court-room.  Here  he  learned  to  imi- 
tate the  different  dialects  of  the  country  people. 
He  had  a  wonderful  gift  of  mimicry.  He  has 
said  in  these  later  years  that  he  does  not  read 
very  much  for  fear  he  will  imitate  the  style  of 
the  books  and  poems.  He  wants  to  be  original. 
All  he  knew  of  farm-life  he  picked   up  by  occa- 

(2U) 


212  TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS. 

sional  visits  to  a  farm  his  father  owned  near 
Greenfield,  but  he  was  not  as  truly  a  farmer  boy 
as  he  would  have  been  if  he  had  been  brought 
up  on  a  farm.  He  said  "I  usually  get  things 
right.  I  get  the  frost  on  the  pumpkin  and  the 
fodder  in  the  shock,  and  I  see  the  frost  on  the 
old  axe  they  split  the  pumpkins  with  for  feed, 
and  I  get  the  smell  of  the  fodder,  and  the  cattle 
so  that  it  brings  up  the  right  picture  in  the  mind 
of  the  reader.  I  don't  know  how  I  do  it.  I'm 
only  the  "wilier"  through  which  the  whistle 
comes." 

Sometimes,  however,  a  real  country  boy  would 
tell  him  that  he  had  things  wrong;  for  instance, 
one  said :  "You  never  lived  on  a  farm.  A 
turkey  cock  gobbles,  he  don't  'ky-ouck,'  it's  the 
turkey  heii  that  ky-oucks."  "Well"  said  Mr. 
Riley,  "he  had  me  right  there.  Well,  you'll 
never  hear  another  turkey-cock  of  mine  ky- 
ouckin','  says  I." 

At  school  he  was  a  star  actor  and  reciter,  but 
in  other  studies  he  lagged  behind.  He  had  fine 
pieces  to  read  in  the  old  McGuffy's  Readers,  but 
days  when  they  had  sad  pieces  like  "Little  Nell" 
to  read  he  always  ran  away,  for  he  knew  he 
would  cry,  and  he  didn't  like  to  do  that  before 
the  other  children. 


JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILBY. 


214  TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

Besides  his  great  gift  of  imitation,  he  could 
draw  very  well,  and  after  he  left  school  he 
learned  the  trade  of  sign-painting  with  an  old 
Dutchman  named  Keefer.  While  he  was  still  a 
young  lad,  his  health  broke  down,  and  the  doc- 
tor told  him  he  ought  to  travel,  but,  how  could 
he  travel  without  money?  About  that  time,  a 
patent  medicine  man  came  along  with  his  wagons, 
and,  as  he  needed  a  man,  he  went  along  with 
him  to  paint  his  advertisements.  He  had  a  good 
year  with  this  traveling  doctor,  and  afterwards 
traveled  with  a  few  other  young  men,  forming 
"The  Graphic  Company" — painting  signs  for 
business  firms  on  fences,  trees,  and  old  buildings. 
During  these  traveling  years,  he  was  writing  his 
dialect  verses,  as  he  said  he  had  to  write  natural 
"pieces  to  speak."  He  finally  sent  some  of  his 
poems  to  Longfellow,  who  wrote  him  a  very  en- 
couraging letter,  and,  after  securing  a  place  in 
a  newspaper  of&ce,  he  had  many  of  them  pub- 
lished in  papers,  so  that,  as  soon  as  they  were 
gathered  in  a  book,  they  were  wanted  all  over 
the  country.  He  finds  subjects  for  his  poems 
everywhere.  They  come  to  him  suddenly,  and 
he  writes  wherever  he  happens  to  be. 

His  poem  beginning 


TALKS    ABOUT    AUTHORS.  215 

"I'm  just  a  little  cripple   boy,  an'  ain't  never  goin'  to 

grow, 
An'  be  a  great,  big  man  at  all,  'cause  auntie  told  me 

so." 

was  brought  to  him  by  seeing  a  little  cripple 
perched  on  a  high  chair  in  the  audience  in  a 
little  country  place  where  he  was  giving  a  read- 
ing. Her  father  told  him  all  about  his  little 
cripple,  Mary,  next  morning,  while  driving  him 
to  the  station.  So  the  poem  grew  out  of  this, 
and  the  idea  that  all  the  cripples  he  had  known 
were  bright  and  cheerful. 

Although  Mr.  Riley  is  a  bachelor,  he  loves 
children,  and  in  his  sister's  home  in  Indianapolis 
he  has  them  around  him  all  the  time.  Of  this 
home  he  writes: 

"Such  a  dear  little  street,  it  is  nestled  away 

From  the  noise  of  the  city  and  the  heat  of  the  day, 

In  cool,  shady  coverts  of  whispering  trees, 

With  their  leaves  lifted  up  to  shake  hand  with  the  breeze, 

Which,  in  all  its  wide  wanderings,  never  may  meet 

With  a  resting-place  fairer  than  Lockerbie  Street." 

The  family  home  in  Greenfield,  some  twenty 
miles  from  Indianapolis,  had  to  be  sold  at  one 
time,  as  the  father  did  not  get  along  very  well 
financially.  It  was  the  poet  son's  ambition  to 
make  enough  money   to   buy  the  home  back,  so 


216  TALKS   ABOUT  AUTHORS. 

he  worked  and  worked,  and  saved  until  when 
his  plans  were  ripe,  he  sent  his  good  old  father 
and  mother  off  on  a  journey  to  California.  While 
they  were  away,  he  bought  the  house,  and  he 
and  his  sisters  worked  hard  to  arrange  all  as  it 
used  to  be.  After  six  weeks,  the  old  folks  came 
home,  and  their  dear  old  home  was  ready,  and 
their  children  stood  in  the  door  to  receive  them. 
As  tears  of  joy  rolled  down  his  face,  the  old 
Quaker  said,  "James,  thou  art  a  most  remarkable 
son." 

His  child  poems  are  familiar  to  all  girls  and 
boys  who  like  to  speak  pieces.  There  are  not 
many  schools  where  "Orphant  Annie,"  "The 
Raggedy  Man,"  and  others  like  them,  have  not 
been  recited.  "The  Old  Swimmin'  Pool,"  "The 
Runaway,"  "The  Wortermelon"  all  bring  pleas- 
ant memories  to  the  boys. 

His  child-life  poems  make  us  laugh,  and  some- 
times cry.  We  all  keep  a  warm  corner  in  our 
hearts  for  the  Hoosier  Poet,  who  understands  us 
all  so  well — 

"Tell  of  the  things  just  like  they  was, 

They  don't  need  no  excuse. 
Don't  tech  them  up  as  the  poets  does 

Till  they're  all  too  fine  for  use," 


TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS.  217 

"lyCt's  go  a-visitin  back  to  Griggsby's  Station, 

Back  where  the  latch-string's  a  hangin'  from  the  door, 

And  ever'  neighbor  round  the  place  is  dear  as  a  relation — 
Back  where  we  used  to  be  so  happy  and  so  pore  !  " 

WHERE-AWAY. 

O  the  Eands  of  Where-Away  ! 
Tell  us — tell  us — where  are  thej^  ? 
Through  the  darkness  and  the  dawn 
We  have  journeyed  on  and  on — 
From  the  cradle  to  the  cross — 
From  possession  unto  loss; 
Seeking  still,  from  day  to  day. 
For  the  lands  of  Where-Away. 

When  our  baby- feet  were  first 
Planted  where  the  daisies  burst, 
And  the  greenest  grasses  grew 
On  the  fields  we  wandered  through, — 
On,  with  childish  discontent. 
Ever  on  and  on  we  went, 
Hoping  still  to  pass,  some  day, 
O'er  the  verge  of  Where-Away. 

Roses  laid  their  velvet  lips 
On  our  own,  with  fragrant  sips; 
But  their  kisses  held  us  not, 
All  their  sweetness  we  forgot; — 
Though  the  brambles  in  our  track 
Plucked  at  us  to  hold  us  back — 
"Just  ahead"  we  used  to  say, 
"Eie  the  Lands  of  Where-Away." 


218  TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS. 

Children  at  the  pasture-bars, 

Through  the  dusk,  like  glimmering  stars. 

Waved  their  hands  that  we  should  bide 

With  them  over  eventide; 

Down  the  dark  their  voices  failed 

Falteringly,  as  they  hailed, 

And  died  into  yesterday — 

Night  ahead  and — Where- Away? 

Twining  arms  about  us  thrown — 
Warm  caresses,  all  our  own, 
Can  but  stay  us  for  a  spell — 
Love  hath  little  new  to  tell 
To  the  soul  in  need  supreme, 
Aching  ever  with  the  dream 
Of  the  endless  bliss  it  may 
Find  in  Lauds  of  Where- A  way! 

— -James  IVhitcomb  Riley. 


RUDYARD    KIPLING, 
AND  HIS  JUNGLE  BOOKS. 

Born,  1S65. 

More  than  thirty  years  ago  a  little  English 
boy  was  born  in  an  Indian  Bungalow,  in  far  off 
Bombay. 

The  boy's  father,  Mr.  John  Kipling,  was  an 
artist  and  writer,  and  had  been  sent  to  India, 
from  England,  as  Principal  of  the  School  of 
Industrial  Art  at  Lahore.  His  mother  was 
bright  and  witty,  a  woman  worthy  of  the  son 
who  is  to-day  the  very  first  in  the  army  of 
writers,  captain  of  them  all.  We  say  of  him  as 
he  once  spoke  of  an  aged  wise  man,  "O  chiefest 
of  those  who  string  pearls  with  their  tongue." 

As  the  boy  Rudyard  grew  up  in  that  home 
in  far-off  India  his  parents  knew  that  he  could 
not  be  educated  there  as  they  wanted  him  to  be, 
so  they  sent  him  home  to  England  to  a  school 
called  "The  United  Service  College,"  at  Northam 
in  Devon  County.  It  was  a  military  school,  and 
the  training  was  severe,  as  most  of  the  boys  were 
expected  to  be  soldiers  or  sailors. 

Rudyard  liked  the  school  and  took  part  in  all 
the  out-door  games,   cricket,   foot-ball  and  golf, 

(219) 


220  TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS. 

besides  fencing  and  swimming.  Their  foot-ball 
team  was  considered  the  best  in  the  country  and 
their  golf-links  the  best  in  England,  but  young 
Kipling  was  interested  in  the  other  side  of  school 
life,  too,  and  did  some  good  hard  studying.  He 
was  editor  of  the  school  paper  and  one  of  the 
first  three  in  his  class. 

When  he  was  about  eighteen  years  old  he 
went  back  to  Lahore,  India,  where  his  father 
still  lived,  and  instead  of  becoming  a  soldier,  he 
began  to  earn  his  living  by  working  on  a  news- 
paper called  "The  Civil  and  Military  Gazette." 
He  worked  as  a  proof-reader,  sub  editor,  reporter 
and  general  assistant,  but  all  this  hard  work 
did  not  prevent  him  from  exercising  his  keen 
powers  of  observation  on  the  life  around  him. 

He  saw  the  richest  material  for  stories,  in  the 
lives  of  the  English  soldiers  in  India,  in  the  lives 
of  those  in  the  service  of  the  government  and  in 
the  lives  of  the  natives.  While  on  duty  for  long 
hours  without  rest,  he  still  found  time  to  write 
poems,  sketches  and  stories  of  the  varied  life 
about  him,  which  found  their  way  into  many 
papers,  and  so  striking  were  they,  so  full  of  force 
and  fire,  people  all  over  the  empire  began  to  in- 
quire: "Who  is  this  youngster,  who  seems  to 
know  every  detail  of  all  forms  of  life  in  India  ?" 


KIPLING. 


222  TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS. 

When  he  was  about  twenty-one  years  of  age, 
he  published  his  first  book.  He  tells  how  it 
happened  in  this  way:  "Men  in  the  army  and 
government  service  wrote  me  that  my  rhymes 
might  be  made  into  a  book.  Some  of  them  had 
been  sung  to  banjos  around  camp-fires,  and  some 
had  run  as  far  down  the  coast  as  Ragoon,  and 
up  to  Mandalay.  A  real  book  was  out  of  the 
question,  but  I  knew  the  office  plant  was  at  my 
disposal,  if  I  did  not  use  office  time;  so  there 
was  built  a  sort  of  a  book — a  lean,  oblong  docket, 
wire-stitched  to  imitate  a  government  envelope, 
printed  on  one  side  only,  bound  in  brown  paper, 
and  secured  with  red  tape.  Of  these  books  we 
made  some  hundreds.  Then  I  took  reply  post- 
cards, printed  the  news  of  the  birth  of  my  book 
on  one  side,  and  the  blank  order  form  on  the 
other,  and  posted  them  up  and  down  the  Em- 
pire. The  money  came  back  in  poor,  but  honest, 
rupees,  direct,  and  every  copy  sold  in  a  few 
weeks." 

This  book  was  called  "Departmental  Ditties." 
Encouraged  by  the  success  of  his  first  attempt, 
Kipling  soon  published  his  "Plain  Tales  from 
the  Hills,"  a  real  book,  this  time-containing  short 
stories  of  life  in  India.  In  this  book  Mulvaney 
first  came  into  the  world  that  has  loved  him  ever 


TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS.  223 

since.     Slowly  these  stories  began  to  be  known 
in  England. 

The  English  people  are  slow  to  believe  that 
any  good  can  come  ont  of  India,  but  they  are 
now  proud  of  the  boy  who  worked  so  faithfully 
in  India  and  sent  home  such  delightful  stories. 
Somehow,  everyone  who  got  hold  of  one  of  the 
Mulvaney  stories  wanted  to  read  another,  and 
the  demand  increased  the  supply,  until,  sud- 
denly, all  over  England  there  arose  a  song  of 
praise  for  this  young  story-writer,  and,  when  his 
"Soldiers  Three"  appeared,  it  was  welcomed  all 
over  the  kingdom.  The  young  author,  then 
about  twenty-five  years  old,  came  to  England, 
and  was  acknowledged  to  be  one  of  the  famous 
writers  of  the  day. 

His  power  to  reach  all  kinds  of  people  is  shown 
in  the  wide  difference  of  opinion  as  to  his  best 
work.  Many  claim  that  his  poetry  has  made 
him  great,  others  the  Mulvaney  stories,  still 
others,  his  longer  stories  like  "Captains  Cour- 
ageous." 

But,  if  the  children  should  decide,  there  would 
be  a  unanimous  chorus  of  praise  for  "The  Jungle 
Books." 

Oh!  those  marvelous  stories  of  the  jungle! 
We  used  to  read  of  wild  animals  talking  to  each 


224  TALKS  ABOUT  AUTHORS. 

other  in  the  old  fables  of  ^sop,  but  those  ani- 
mals were  too  serious  and  unreal,  and  there  were 
too  many  "morals"  about  their  talks,  but  when 
we  get  acquainted  with  the  jungle  animals 
that  Kipling  knew  so  well,  it  seems  as  though  we 
have  had  glimpses  of  a  real,  true  animal  world. 

A  bright  writer  of  England  said,  "Reading 
Mr.  Kipling's  Jungle  Book  has  left  me  merely 
undecided  as  to  which  I  would  rather  be  a  seal 
or  a  mongoose,"  and  we  sympathize  with  him, 
for,  who  does  not  love  Rikki  Tikki,  the  little  mon- 
goose, that  saved  the  little  boy's  life,  and  his 
father  and  mother,  by  killing  old  Nag,  and  Nagi- 
ana,  his  wife,  the  two  dreadful  cobra  snakes  that 
lived  in  the  garden. 

We  wonder  if  the  boy  wasn't  Kipling  himself, 
and  the  funny  mongoose  that  perched  on  the 
boy's  pillow  at  night  and  talked  to  himself,  his 
own  little  pet. 

And  how  proud  we  are  of  the  little  White 
Seal,  which  lived  such  a  safe,  sheltered  life  at 
first,  while  its  mother  sang  this  beautiful  lullaby 
to  it: 

* 

''O,  hush  thee!  my  baby,  the  uight  is  behind  us, 
And  black  are  the  waters  that  sparkle  so  green; 

The  moon  o'er  the  combers  looks  downward  to  find  us 
At  rest  in  the  hollows  that  rustle  between, 


TALKS    ABOUT   AUTHORS.  225 

Where  billow  meets  billow,  there  soft  be  thy  pillow; 

Ah!  weary,  wee  flipperling,  curl  at  thy  ease, 
The  storm  shall  not  wake  thee,  nor  shark  overtake  thee. 

Asleep  in  the  arms  of  the  slow  swinging  seas." 

Then,  when  the  mother  saw  what  a  brave 
little  fellow  her  White  Seal  was,  she  warned 
him,  saying: 

"You  mustn't  swim  till  you're  six  weeks  old 
Or  your  head  will  be  sunk  by  3'our  heels, 

And  summer  gales  and  Killer  Whales 
Are  bad  for  baby  seals." 

But  the  White  Seal  grew  stronger,  and  one 
time  swam  far  off  with  hundreds  of  other  seals, 
and  very  nearly  got  killed  by  the  seal-hunters, 
who  drove  many  of  his  friends  into  a  pen.  This 
so  worried  the  White  Seal  that  he  determined  to 
find  a  safe  beach  for  his  friends,  and  he  never 
rested  until  he  found  a  safe  and  beautiful  place 
where  the  cruel  men   never  found  them. 

Then  we  read  about  little  "Toomai  of  the  Ele- 
phants," the  brave  boy  who  saw  the  "Elephants' 
Dance"  one  night. 

Through  the  story  of  "Mowgli,"  the  litte  boy 
carried  from  his  home  by  an  old  lame  tiger,  and 
saved  from  death  by  the  jungle  folks,  we  learn 
the  wise  "Laws  of  the  Jungle."  The  boy  was 
brought  up  by  an  old  mother  wolf,  and  taught 


226  TALKS   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 

by  old  Baloo,  the  bear,  and  Bagheera,  the 
panther.  So  well  did  they  teach  him  that  he 
was  safe  with  all  the  animals  of  the  jungle, 
knowing  just  the  right  word  for  each,  but  they 
forgot  to  teach  him  about  the  Bandarlog  People, 
or  the  Monkeys.  They  all  looked  down  on 
them,  because  they  were  foolish,  always  pretend- 
ing to  do  great  things,  and  then  forgetting,  and 
going  on  with  tricks  again,  so  one  day  Mowglii 
went  sailing  off  over  the  tree-tops,  snatched  up 
by  the  Bandarlogs.  His  rescue  by  old  Baloo, 
Bagheera  and  Kaa,  the  big  python  snake,  is  a 
funny  story.  This  is  the  way  the  Bandarlog 
people  were  supposed  to  talk  to  each  other  of 
the  great  things  they  would  do  : 

"Here  we  sit  in  a  branch}^  row, 
Thinking  of  beautiful  things  we  know, 
Dreaming  of  deeds  that  we  mean  to  do 
All  complete  in  a  minute  or  two- 
Something  noble,  and  grand,  and  good, 
Won  by  merely  wishing  we  could. 

Now,  we're  going  to never  mind, 

Brother,  thy  tail  hangs  down  behind." 

These  Bandarlog  people  did  not  recognize  the 
"Laws  of  the  Jungle,"  and  so  old  Kaa  squeezed 
them  to  death  whenever  he  could  catch  them. 

''Mowgli's   Brothers"  is  the  first  story  in  the 


TALKS    ABOUT    AUTHORS.  227 

Jungle  Book,  and,  just  as  soon  as  we  read  that, 
we  want  to  know  the  whole  Jungle.  These  are 
its  Laws : 

"Now  these  are  the  Laws  of  the  Jungle,   and  many  and 

mighty  are  they, 
But  the  head  and  the  hoof  of  the   Law.   and  the  haunch 

and  the  hump  is  obey! 

Wash  daily  from    nose-tip  to  tail-tip,  drink   deeply,   but 

nevtr  too  deep. 
And  remember  the  night  is  for  hunting,   and  forget  not 

the  day  is  for  sleep. 

When  ye  fight  with  a  wolf  of  the  pack  ye  must  fight  him 
alone  and  afar. 

Lest  others  take  part  in  the  quarrel  and  the  pack  be  dimi- 
nished by  war. 

Ye  may  kill  for  yourselves  and  your  mates  and  your  cubs 

as  they  need  and  ye  can, 
But  kill  not  for  pleasure  of  killing  and  seven  times  never 

kill  man." 

The  Second  Jungle  Book  is  just  as  interesting 
as  the  first,  and  Mr.  Kipling  is  also  writing 
stories  for  boys  which  are  published  in  maga- 
zines of  this  country  and  England.  He  comes 
to  this  country  often,  as  lie  married  an  American 
lady.  He  now  has  one  boy  of  his  own,  and  the 
children  may  count  on  many  more  books  written 
on    purpose    for  him,  by  this  wonderful  young 


228 


TALfcS   ABOUT   AUTHORS. 


man  who  lias  given  us    such    treasures   in    the 
Jungle  Books. 


RUDYARD  KIPLING'S  HOME  NEAR  BRATTI,EBORO,  VT. 

"You  can  work  it  out  by  fractions 

Or  by  simple  Rule  of  Three, 
But  the  way  of  Tweedle  Dum 

Is  not  the  way  of  Tweedle  Dee. 
You  can  twist  it,  you  can  turn  it 

You  can  plait  it  till  you  drop, 
But  the  way  of  Pilly  Winky's 

Not  the  way  of  Winkie  Pop." 

— Kipling. 


TALKS    ABOUT    AUTHORS.  229 


CONCERNING  KIPLING. 

In  the  dim  dawnlight  of  the  waking  world,   when  life  in 

blindness  wrought, 
And  sav^age  tribes  in  the  uncleared  laud   for  food   and 

freedom  fought, 
There  rose  a  singer  among  the  clans,  in  the  glare  of  the 

desert  sun, 
And   he  found  his  home  wherever  he  strayed — for  he 

knew  that  life  is  One. 

He  dwelt  with  the  tribes  of  marsh  and  moor — he  sat  at 
the  board  of  kings; 

He  tasted  the  toil  of  the  burdened  slave,  and  the  joy  that 
triumph  brings; 

But  whether  to  jungle  or  palace  hall  or  white -walled  tent 
he  came. 

He  was  brother  to  king  and  soldier  and  slave — his  wel- 
come was  the  same. 

There  has  risen  a  singer  out  of  the   East,    in   the  clatter 

and  chatter  and  strife. 
The  babble  of  markets  and  blur  of  print — the  turmoil  men 

call  Life. 
He  came  to  the  task  that  was  set  for  him;  and  scarce  was 

that  work  begun 
When  he  knew  that  the  world   was  a-building  yet — and 

the  power  that  builds  is  One. 

He  knew  by  the  spirit's  countersign  that  Teuton  and  Celt 
and  Greek, 


230  TALKS   ABOUT    AUTHORS. 

Kaffir  and  Pathan  and  Rajput  king,  the  self-same  language 

speak; 
Face  to  face,  he  has  talked  with  each — they  have   given 

him  of  their  best; 
He  has  made  his  home  on  the  sea  and  the  land,   and 

brought  the  East  to  the  West. 

O  singer  of  men  and  the  hearts  of  men,  you   have  called 
the  soul  by  name. 

You  have  followed  its  path  through  the  changing  world. 
Is  it  not  forever  the  same? 

And  whether  3'ou  travel  to  northern  snows,  or  the  south- 
ern sea  and  sun, 

You  will  find,  as  you  found  in  the  ages  past,   that  the 
heart  of  the  world  is  One. 

—  The  Northern  Capital. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


V.0 


FormLQ — 15m-10,'48(B1039)444 


UNIVERSITY  ©f  CALIFORNIA 

AT. 

LOS  ANGELES 

LIBRARY 


FN        YiTare  - 
511       Talks  about 
V^2t     authors  and 
their  v/ork. 


PN 

511 

W22t 


^^^577  709 """" 


